Bombs For Breakfast
by mmDerdekea
Summary: There is a bomber on the loose in Los Angeles and Bill, Ralph and Pam have to solve the case. This is an 80 page complete story, full of character analysis, humor and action, Bill whumping, and friendship all around. Uniquely geared to serious GAH fans!
1. Chapter 1

Introduction

Global Paper Enterprises CEO Harold Perkins lived off of posh Mulholland Drive in the Santa Monica hills, his mansion surrounded by the homes of the rich and famous. Harold had no desire to mix with the actors and actresses of Hollywood, but he enjoyed the snobbery of living amongst them, and the wide-eyed "Oohs" which occurred when he happened to mention at various social engagements, off the cuff, who his neighbors were. With his company doing well, its stocks increasing quarterly, their new product set to come out to accolades in a month, his children doing well at college, and his golf game improving, life was looking mighty fine for Harold Perkins, as he put his house key in the door. Of course that recent altercation with Culdero was bothersome; imagine asking him for so much money based on childish vows made 30 years ago in a drunken ritual. Ridiculous scroll in a ridiculous box. He'd throw it out tomorrow and be done with the whole thing. No doubt everything would settle down after that, in another week or two. It was thus surprising to him when he heard his name called and, turning around, found himself looking at two men in polyester three piece suits, holding up identification containing FBI badges in them.

"Mr. Harold Perkins?" one asked. "I'm Tom Bailey, from the FBI." Nodding to his partner, he added, "This is Claude Wallinski. May we speak to you for a moment?"

"What is this about, gentleman? I've had a long day and wish to relax in my pool before supper."

The agents cast a quick look between themselves—having to deal with the super-wealthy, and their leisurely swims before supper didn't hold much sway for working Feds who'd never earn enough to own one Rolls Royce, let alone a three car garage full of them.

"This won't take much time, Sir. It's about the recent bombings."

This piqued Harold's interest. Three upper management businessmen dead in the last month. It was a little nerve-wracking, especially in light of his own upsetting interaction with Culdero.

"Global Enterprises doesn't do business with the companies of the deceased men," Perkins explained.

"Still, Sir, if we could go inside, for some privacy, there is a line or two of questioning we'd appreciate you discussing with us."

Harold sighed. The pool would have to wait. He felt compelled to grant the interview; it was good to know the FBI was actively working on the case.

"Come in, gentlemen," he said, as he opened up the front door. He turned off the burglar alarm by pressing his four digit code into the box in the entrance hallway, and lead the agents further into the house. They had not walked more than ten feet when an explosion occurred, large and loud, spreading body parts throughout the immaculately manicured lawn while two damaged FBI guns landed on the remains of the roof.

Chapter One

"People, this is our fourth businessman blown up. The fourth explosion using detonation material stolen from Malmstrom Air Force Base in Montana, thus, once again, making it a federal case, and our responsibility." Les Carlisle, the supervisor of the Los Angeles FBI, paused, as he enjoyed doing, for emphasis. His over-bearing and dramatic nature made the morning Special Agents meeting one of the least favorite times of days for his working men and women. "And, let us not forget that we've lost four agents on this case, as well. Four men blown up: Dankins, Jones, Bailey and Wallinski. We haven't lost four agents total in the last ten years. The deputy supervisor wants this solved and solved now. With no more loss of civilian or FBI life. The newspapers are having a field day with this! We're looking like incompetents here!"

Agents squirmed in their seats as the point to Carlisle's talk came out so openly. His reputation was on the line; that was the most important thing to focus on. Not on the tragic deaths; not on the grieving families of the dead men; not on the abstruse nature of the case. But on Carlisle's own standing in the federal community.

"Now, who is going to take this case, bust it open and get it solved?" Carlisle asked, holding the file in his hand.

As had happened in the past, when Carlisle needed someone to investigate a deadly plague, only one hand rose up in answer to his question.

"I'll take it, Carlisle," Bill Maxwell said. "I love bombs, explosions, Fourth of July fireworks, you name it."

Carlisle tried to ignore Bill's hand, but when his "Anyone else?" came back with a roomful of agents looking anywhere but at him, he sighed deeply and realized that once again, a highly important case was going to Maxwell. The roomful of cowardly agents disgusted him. He would have taken the case if he was still a field agent. Now, it would be another case run in an unorthodox way, on Maxwell's own rules, to be successfully solved but written up in a way that Carlisle knew hid information, hid something…something Carlisle could never figure out. And then he'd hear Maxwell's name mentioned in the hallway by the younger agents, many who had started wearing that ridiculous double holster, and who, if they were equally warm-blooded, were undoing the first button of their shirts, and loosening their ties. It was his secret dread—that one day he'd wake up and come to work and see a whole building full of Maxwell impersonating agents, all begging to work alone, without a partner.

On the other hand, Maxwell was always successful; he did do a good job. And Carlisle's reputation was the stronger for it.

"Alright, Billy, here's the file. The rest of you chickens can go back to your farms. Billy, this is a priority A-One case. Put aside whatever else you're working on and focus on this."

Maxwell eagerly grabbed the folder and opened it right up. "Right, boss!" he said, his eyes dancing with pleasure.

To Carlisle's dismay, his frequently calling Maxwell the disparaging, childish "Billy" never, ever phased the man. Never. Could he really be that good-natured? Carlisle shook his head back and forth. Didn't Bill realize how dangerous the case was, that he could very well be killed investigating it? Carlisle didn't wholly know if Maxwell really was as courageous as he seemed, or if he was just a little stupid, or, most probably, both. He was as mysterious a man as his case completion record was mysterious. An undeniably hard-working, committed Fed for 20 years, eager to listen to his more experienced partners and learn from them, he had always had a solid bust record. He had never shown any real interest in progressing up the management level, had never attempted to brown nose superiors to gain entrance into the administrative heights, had never bothered adjusting his dress or attitude to fit into the desk job mindset. He had been always content to stay in the field, loving the thrill and action.

He had been a slightly atypical agent all along in regards to his love for his country and his devotion to his duty, but he had been steady and conventional, a "by the book" type of agent. Dependable. Somewhere in the last three years, though, something had changed. Maxwell became less open about discussing his cases; he had the Deputy Supervisor okay him working alone; he solved incredibly difficult cases within days; and his reports contained explanations that seemed entirely credible, though at times a little fantastical--especially in regard as to how he ruined another government issue car--but, could not be proven as prevarications. His reports, hastily composed without thought of grammar or spelling, were ingenuously written to hide…something…which Carlisle could never uncover. Had he always been so cunning?

To top it off, in the last three years Bill had met and become best friends with a blond, curly topped ex-beach bum, twenty years younger than him, and of all things a Special Education instructor at a local high school. Maxwell, an apparently average intelligence, flag-waving, right-wing gun lover, now had left leaning liberal friends, saved wild horses, recovered children lost in forests, and cleared mistakenly arrested juvenile delinquents. He also used his brains to find Russian lovers, arrest heads of the mafia, preserve CIA agent world-wide locations, and prevent endless other serious perils to the USA. Maxwell had thus become in the last few years, a complete and utter mystery.

Carlisle hated mysteries. He liked the world to be clear and concise, with dotted i's and perfectly crossed t's. He liked things tidy and clean—he was a fastidious, meticulous man. Everything about Maxwell, though, especially in the last three or so years, had made his, (grudgingly admitted), "star agent" an enigma. Carlisle hated enigmas.

"Try not to get blown up, Bill," Carlisle said. "Even though that would save the government around $5000 a year in coffee expenses."

He waited for a rude wisecrack to come from Maxwell, but it didn't. It never did. Maxwell, formed and created in the Korean War and an FBI agent for 20 years, took what Carlisle gave him, and was on no account verbally subordinate. His background of listening to and obeying the rules of authority was a foundation of his, even if when outside the office, on a case, he proceeded in his own, unique fashion. Maxwell was ready with a joke or two, now and then, but never said anything inappropriate to Carlisle, respecting both Carlisle and their boss/underling relationship. Maxwell never said anything Carlisle could write up. Nothing Carlisle could use against Maxwell. That was also irritating.

Bill stood up. "Go on, the bitter sludge served around here? It can't cost the government more than $1000, including the little plastic spoons for mixing in the cream."

He was one of the few agents who was as tall as Carlisle, both standing in the 6'2" range. They possessed the same lean body type, but Maxwell had slightly broader shoulders and what appeared to be a notably muscular back and neck. Somehow Carlisle knew that even beyond the shoulders, Maxwell had a much more imposing presence, though he dressed like a slob, and never shaved off his slightly bushy sideburns, and was nearly ten years older, in his early 50s. Was it his experience, his kill record, his devotion to his country, his courage under fire…his what? Carlisle himself felt he was Maxwell's equal in all those categories. The bizarre reality was that Carlisle was sure if trouble developed and agents could chose to follow him or Maxwell, the majority would go with Maxwell. It was incomprehensible.

Everything in the last three years about Maxwell was incomprehensible.

Not wishing to continue chatting with his errant agent, Carlisle said, "Sit down, Maxwell," and, obediently, Bill did. Carlisle went on admonishing the other twenty agents in the room regarding the next important FBI topic. "Don't forget to work on this recent crime wave, people. We've had banks robbed seven times in the last month, from San Francisco to San Diego: three right here in L.A. I want that stopped and stopped soon. Our department is starting to look like we're a bunch of bunglers."

Heads nodded solemnly in agreement.

Carlisle grew exasperated. "Don't agree with me! Get those bank robbers!" He glanced at Maxwell happily ensconced in his file, like a little boy playing with his favorite truck. "And stop the bombings." Bill didn't hear him. He was so absorbed in his folder he wasn't paying any more attention to the meeting.

Carlisle sighed. "Dismissed." Everyone filed out. Bill noticed the movement around him and scooped his folders into a pile he grabbed under his arm as he stood up. Several agents went to Bill, patting him on his back for accepting such a dangerous assignment.

Carlisle cringed hearing Maxwell's predictable response, as he pulled out the bombings folder. "What, this little caper? You girls stick with the video copyright infringements and let us real agents do some good around here. I eat bombs for breakfast."

The agents smiled at the cocky answer. Maxwell was Maxwell. While it brought bemusement and camaraderie to his coworkers, to Carlisle it brought a relatively immediate need of an antacid.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

No matter that his best friend had a magic alien suit, some of FBI work is simply sitting reading, being on the computer, and trying to get links to connect the various aspects of a crime wave. By the time Bill got a hold of the case, a three days had passed since Perkins, Bailey and Wallinski had been blown up, which historically in his work with Ralph was too long for Ralph to pick up on the vibes of the destroyed mansion. So, Bill figured he was responsible for establishing a starting place. That meant nitpicking through the case. Unlike his boss, Bill loved puzzles and solving them. A third of the enjoyment of the case was putting the pieces together and discerning the perpetrator, a third was the arrest and any action that occurred as a result, and the last third was seeing the creep sentenced to jail; one less person putting society and civilians at risk.

Bill spent the day reading through the chart and familiarizing himself with the case. Four businessmen had recently been killed:

First victim: Popolopokis, Arnold, Senior Vice President of International Mailers, Inc. Died 5/12/83, when car exploded upon ignition. IMI was an international shipping company, flying documents overnight all around the world.

Second victim: Thomkins, William, CFO of Technological Insights, Inc. Died 5/22/83 at vacation home in Lake Tahoe. TII made computer components. The first two Feds, David Dankins and Paul Jones had died with Mr. Thomkins.

Third victim: Michaels, Stephen, Comptroller of Edgars. Died 5/29/83 when private jet he was piloting exploded right after take-off. Edgars was a franchised restaurant chain.

Fourth victim: Perkins, Harold, CEO Global Paper Enterprises. Died 6/10/83 when home blew up. GE was a paper manufacturing plant. Bailey and Wallinski had died here.

The file disclosed that none of the men knew each other. The only clue Bailey and Wallinski had found, which had led them, unfortunately but correctly, to Perkins, had been a slip of paper found by the edge of the runway Michaels had used, in some weeds. It was a little memo pad note, with "GPE next" on it. Bailey and Wallinski had used the computer to come up with all companies with GPE initials and had set themselves to chat with all the CEOs, to try to find some link.

Bill had known all four men, but considered himself a friend of the 35 year old Tom Bailey. Bailey had been on his Fed bowling team. He had a wicked spin on his bowling ball, which Bill could never replicate, and was the team's high striker. He had an easy laugh, a wife, and two young kids. Bill scowled at the thought of those kids losing their father and Lisa, his pretty wife, losing her husband. Whatever creeps were responsible for this, Bill vowed to himself would be brought to justice. Silently rolling his right shoulder to clear his head, Bill returned to studying the file. There had to be something connecting these four men.

The drudge work began. He got a list of all the employees of all the companies for the last ten years who had joined or departed any of the companies and checked to see if any had worked for the other companies. There were no intermixing of employees. No major changes at the companies; no large lay-offs. A few contentious firings, the previous agents had ruled out any of the ex-employees as suspicious.

Another odd thing was that all four businessmen had been killed when they were alone or with FBI agents investigating the case. The bomber apparently did not want random family or civilian deaths on his head. These were specifically targeted explosions, and went off just when precisely determined. That meant the bombs were probably planted previously and then the businessman were followed, to ensure they were alone or with interfering Feds, when the bombs were set off, no doubt by radio signal…

Since the detonation material was stolen from an Air Force base, and since the method of killing had a Special Ops nature about it—being able to plant the devices, following the victim without being detected, using radio signals to initiate the device--Bill wondered if any military trained bomb experts had gone rogue. In any case, it sure seemed like it was a professional job all around.

He contacted a friend he had at the Pentagon, who promised to look into it and would get back to him in the morning. Sighing at the wait, Bill's mind when back to when he had taken Ralph to the FBI vault in the basement, where old evidence was stored of unsolved cases. Ralph had grabbed a recovered machine gun and holographed a murder; although the theft was old, the murderer was using one of the guns at that moment. If, then, the bomber was planning another bomb, perhaps handing Ralph a piece of the Bailey crime scene would enable him to vibe a new clue or even the identification of the bomber.

It was worth a try.

Bill lifted his Styrofoam cup and chugged down the last of the black water brewed in the office coffee pot. Cold and bitter, like Old Faithful, it caused a little heartburn to erupt up his esophagus. Bill was used to that. Heartburn and him were old pals, keeping each other company at least twice a week. What Fed didn't get heartburn? What Fed didn't get skull pounding headaches? Well, Bill thought, putting on his suit jacket and collecting the file, probably Carlisle, who no doubt escaped the common ailments of working agents by causing both of them in others.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

Bill signed several pieces of paper at the FBI lab to be allocated a part of the bomb mechanism found at Perkins mansion which had already been studied and catalogued—a little bit of scrap metal with the remnant of a blue wire sticking out of it.

"Get anything helpful from it? Fingerprints? M.O. of some previous bomber?" he asked the white-coated lab assistant as he looked at the clue lying on a counter.

"Not a thing. It appears that all four bombs used high level plastic explosive, which is exactly what was stolen from Malmstrom. They seemed to have been constructed the same way. We found similar remnants and wires at all four bomb sites."

"Any particular style of bomb?"

"A little bit. There are a couple of unique adaptations made, and the components do show some very high level explosive skills."

"So, the creep has taken Bomb Building 101?"

"I'd say this creep has a PhD in explosions."

"Any other clues?"

"Nope."

Bill sighed. "Great. That narrows things down to the size of the Grand Canyon." He'd have to go back to the computers and run a general search of all known professional bombers. Well, at least his gut feeling that a professional was involved seemed right.

The lab assistant shrugged. "Sorry." He held up the plastic bag holding the bomb remnant. "Listen, this is important government property. Don't set it on fire." He glanced at the two other lab workers fiddling at their microscopes, but obviously listening in. "We've heard of your reputation with cars." The folks at the microscopes snorted in amusement.

Maxwell's track record for destroying his government issue cars was a delight to everyone but Maxwell and the government bean counters who now had to pay extra car insurance for all FBI agents.

"Gimme that," Maxwell said, grabbing the plastic bag and putting it in his jacket pocket. "Go back to breathing in beaker fumes."

"Beaker fumes. Good one, Bill. Hey, listen, do me a favor. Neville in accounting started a Fantasy Maxwell Car Wreckage Lottery six months ago. I signed up and have this month as the next month you're going to wreck a car. I'll split the pot with you 50:50 if you set your car of fire, either, you know, in some bizarre accident out in the desert, or trying to avoid hitting a dog. Whatever. Should be worth a thousand dollars for each of us."

The Wreckage Lottery was news to Bill. As all three of the lab folks stared at him, he murmured, "Lab rat geeks," and left, ignoring the laughter that burst out behind him.

"Gee whiz," he mumbled, heading outside to his Dodge Diplomat, granted, the seventh or eighth, or ninth, one he'd been assigned in the last three years. "They haven't all burned up." Which was true, many of them had been totaled in crashes without catching on fire. People should get those sorts of details correct.

As it was after five o'clock, Bill knew Ralph would be at home, the school day ending early. Pulling up at the curb in front of Ralph's ranch home, he saw the old wood-sided station wagon in the driveway. Bill wondered why Ralph kept driving that old heap, when he no longer had a family to drive. His ex-wife Alicia had gained custody of his son Kevin, which, however much it rankled Ralph, everyone knew was the right thing to do. With Ralph coming and going all the time with suit important business at hand, having a child about was too hard to coordinate. It was bad enough the grumbling the Counselor did at times regarding Ralph being gone so much, let alone how it would affect a child.

Ah, perhaps the kid had sentimental value attached to the wagon. Ralph was known to fill his mind with that sort of junk.

Bill strode quickly up the walk to the front door and barged into the house, as if it was his own. As long as Ralph wasn't in the midst of train-bonking amnesia, or getting intimate with his wife, Pam, "the Counselor", he didn't mind Bill's forthright entrances. It was just another aspect of Bill that if one didn't get upset about, one could actually be amused by.

"Ralph! Where are you?" Bill called out, looking right to the living room and left to the dining room, both being empty.

"In here, Bill!" came the reply, from the kitchen around the corner from the dining room. "We're preparing dinner."

Dinner. Food. Always words which struck Bill favorably. Being a relatively active, sometimes hyperactive individual, rarely at rest except during sleep, Bill's metabolism and appetite were still high for a man his age. He had gained a few extra pounds from nervous eating after initially seeing the ship and being paired with Ralph, but over time, as things with his partner settled into a routine, and he hadn't been taken up dead into the….spaceship….like John Mackie, he had lost the weight and was lean again. Still, it was the rare piece of food he turned down.

Bill walked into the kitchen and came to a dead standstill, shock opening up his face into horror. "What--WHAT is that?"

Ralph smiled widely, ready to have fun with his more conservative partner. "Tofu," he said, pointing to the two square blocks of whiteness sitting on the cutting board. Pam took a knife and began cutting the blocks into smaller pieces.

"Tofu? Ralph, only the Japanese eat that, and they never grow over 5'4", and they have kamikaze tendencies. It's poisonous."

Ralph charted in his head the whole way this discussion would go. Bill's disgust and stereotypical comments; his own verbal annoyance at Bill's narrow-mindedness; Pam's annoyance; Bill's eventual tasting of the meal and his acceptance of it; ending with all of them enjoying the meal together. This pattern was pretty much as set in stone as were the Ten Commandments. Ralph had learned to enjoy almost every second of it.

"It's not poisonous, Bill. Give me a break. There hasn't been a kamikaze attack in forty years and Mr. Nashimura, who teaches math, is, isn't he around 5'6", honey?"

Pam looked at Ralph, and then at Bill, and without broaching a comment went back to cutting up the tofu.

"What exactly is it?" Bill asked, sinking his head down to almost touch his nose to the tofu, as he sniffed at it like a bloodhound.

"Do you mind? I'm preparing tofu, not nose-fu," Pam complained.

Bill stood back up. "Yech," he pronounced maturely.

Ralph went into teacher mode. "It's made from a bean. You eat beans; you love Mexican food. This is just another, Asian, bean. The soybean. Tofu is soybean, uh, curd." Even Ralph had to admit that the "curd" part didn't really sound that great, and he couldn't fault Bill for narrowing his eyes in suspicion and silently mimicking "curd?". In fact, Ralph wasn't wholly interested in eating tofu, either, but marriage is full of compromises. "Pam got a recipe from one of the other female lawyers in her office."

"That's right," Pam said, proudly, reading off the paper on the counter. "One dices it up, adds in vegetables, like bok choy and cabbage, and then a sauce for flavor. Melissa said she likes it curried, and wrote the recipe for that, too, so I thought I'd try it. I've got rice cooking in the rice cooker. It's going to be delicious, fellows."

"Bok choy and cabbage?" Bill repeated. "Lemme guess, next we'll be decked out in kimonos and wooden sandals while sleeping on mats on the floor. Oh, then we can start cutting up your bushes into elephants." Pam glared at him as Ralph closed his eyes and shook his head back and forth; boy, he sure was glad those plants had grown out again after they got the ray gun back.

Bill continued, "Hopefully, the CIA and Russians will barge in and we'll have to tilt the table sideways."

That was a sore topic for Pam--more so than poorly clipped landscaping--whose microwave chicken dinner a year or so ago turned into a Space Ranger food on the floor fiasco requiring a hundred dollars of carpet clean-up.

"Ralph, would you help me out here, please?" Pam exasperatingly pleaded to her husband, while Bill stared nervously at the force at which she was then cutting up the vegetables. "Woh, counselor, if you keep that up, we can use the cutting board for campfire kindling."

"Ralph!"

"Bill," Ralph said, gliding his partner out the kitchen, "why don't we let Pam prepare dinner alone? What brought you here anyway?"

Bill left the kitchen still staring at the Counselor and pneumatic hammer slicing she was causing to the vegetables. "Don't get bursitis," he warned, and the slicing increased even more in intensity.

As they wound up back in the narrow entrance hallway Bill whispered to Ralph, "Do you really want to eat that?"

Ralph whispered back, "Well…it's good to try new things."

"New scotch, yes; new curd, no."

Ralph sighed. He couldn't wholly disagree with his partner. He had come home from school thinking a nicely barbecued steak would hit the spot, only to find Pam happily taking tofu out of a couple of containers. It was hard, sometimes, how often he wound up caught between his wife and his best friend. A change of subject seemed best.

"What's going on? What's that file about?"

Bill came right back to the FBI case. "You've read about the businessmen bombings, haven't you? Well, the FBI has lost four agents investigating that, and it's now my case."

"You've lost four agents?"

"Yeah, they were blown up with the bombs. Four agents killed in a month. It's unprecedented. Everyone at the bureau is too chicken to work on the case, now. After the meeting they were like little mice scurrying back to their desks."

Ralph had learned to mostly ignore Bill's mixed metaphors, like this one with chickens and mice. Just as Bill couldn't shoot everyone he wanted to, Ralph couldn't instruct all the time. Ralph was concerned though. "Well, maybe they have a point. Are you sure you should take the case? It sounds really dangerous."

Bill stared at his partner wordlessly for a moment, then waved his hand up and down in front of Ralph's face. "Hello? Are you the Ralph Hinkley with the magic jammies? Don't tell me you have amnesia again."

"Bill, the suit is funny with explosions. Remember when I was knocked out for three hours during the rock concert? I barely woke in time able to stop the bazooka."

Bill didn't like these sorts of conversations. He liked the suit to be wholly impervious to everything. He liked knowing that Ralph was never in any danger of being wounded or hurt in any permanent way. It was the only way Bill felt justified in bringing Ralph in on his cases.

"What are you talking about? That was a fluke. And nearly two years ago, to boot. You've got a better handle on the suit, now."

"And what about you? You're not impervious to bombs."

This was the way it went. Short, abrupt sentences used to share the concern each felt for the other. Nothing mushy, and no drivel allowed.

"But, I've got you watching out for me, Ralph. Just think how much the Maxwell stock will go up at the bureau when we solve this one. Plus, I really want to nail the creeps who killed the agents. One of them was a friend of mine."

It was funny how many friends Bill had. Ralph knew he didn't use the term lightly. For all his abrasive personality traits, and his occasional lack of social skills, he really did have friends everywhere, who were indeed loyal to him. Bill had friends at the Pentagon, the CIA, and other agencies, all who risked their jobs to relay needed information to him. He had friends at the bureau he bowled with, who helped him make ridiculous suit stabilizers. He had long-term friends like Harlan Blackford, his ex-partner, the unfortunately deceased Teddy McSherry, and Capt. Tracy Winslow, who Bill had put in jail, and yet visited several times a year. Ralph's mom adored Bill, and saw him whenever she came out to visit. So, apparently, Ralph wasn't the only one who realized the decency and goodness of Bill Maxwell, who appreciated his sense of humor and capacity to have fun. Ralph was warmed by knowing that. And he knew Bill's own fidelity to friendship meant that he needed to work this case, needed to make things right for the family of the dead agent who had been his friend.

"Alright. I've read a little about it, but fill me in."

Suddenly a voice hollered out from the kitchen. "Dinner in ten minutes!"

Bill and Ralph shared an anxious look. "Why don't we sneak out the door—", Bill started to say.

"—and head right to a divorce lawyer?" Ralph finished. "Been there. Done that."

Bill nodded his head. "Good point. I guess we'll have to be the Three Curdeteers—Tofu for all and all for tofu. If the Counselor makes it, we'll have to eat it."

However much he complained, which was generally substantially, Bill had always come through for Ralph on cases and in regular life. It meant a lot to Ralph. He put a hand on Bill's shoulder. "Thanks, Bill."

"Well, we've got ten minutes before we'll have to call in the paramedics for abdominal cramps. I'll fill you in on the case."

They sat down on the sofa in the living room and Bill told Ralph what he knew and had figured out. He took out the piece of metal and blue wire and handed it to Ralph. "This is what I want you to holograph in on. Even if the bombing was three days ago, if another bomb is being planted by the same guy, there's a chance you might pick up on it."

Ralph took the piece of metal out of the bag and held it in his hand. A chill ran through him. This had caused the death of three men. It had left widows and fatherless children; it was evil. The person who had set it off was evil. He would use his suit to stop it.

"Dinner! Come and get it!"

Both men stood with Bill wincing and Ralph putting on his happy and enthusiastic face.

"Can't wait to try it, honey," he called back, rubbing his hands together. "I bet it's dee-licious!"

"Don't overdo it," Bill mumbled out of the side of his mouth.

Pam set the table quickly and the three sat down at it, one of them staring at the white pieces of poison, while two of them picked up chopsticks and began nibbling away. Bill chose to use the normal American made fork utensil, and with deep regret speared some vegetable and tofu and put it in his mouth, knowing the Counselor was attempting to not stare at him, but was, anyway.

Hmm, it wasn't that bad, actually. The curry was nicely flavored, spicy but not too hot, the vegetables were crunchy, there were no tomatoes to be seen, and Bill liked rice. The tofu itself had an odd texture, but it wasn't slimy—Bill's worst texture—it was just kind of chewy. Like dissolvable, swallowable gum. Bill didn't mind chewing gum.

"Counselor, I gotta say, this isn't half bad," Bill stated, going for a second large forkful.

Ralph nodded, his mouth full of food, too. "Yeah, Pam, it's good. You should be proud of yourself."

Pam didn't say anything as she munched on her first bite, slowly, her face gradually transforming itself into one of deep loathing. As Bill and Ralph kept digging into the meal, Pam stood up, covered her mouth and ran into the kitchen, whereby her meal wound up in the kitchen sink and promptly washed down the disposal.

Standing up, she came back to the dining room and declared her opinion of the meal to two shocked men. "Yuck! Tofu is awful. Anyone want a burger?"

Bill and Ralph looked at each other. "Nope, I'm fine," Ralph said.

"Me, too," added in Bill. "Ralph, pass that bok choy stuff."

Later, after the meal was over and the dishes cleaned up, Ralph put on his suit and holographed the piece of metal. Nothing came through at first, until he put the piece on top of his head, and then an image came forth. Sitting down next to his patient partner, Ralph held Bill's shoulder, much to Bill's dismay, so Bill could see the holograph himself. Bill didn't really like being intimately involved in the suit; it kind of gave him the creeps. But, it did save a lot of yakking time, with Ralph not having to explain what he saw.

What came into view was an unusual symbol, a blue triangle, with black circles sitting on each corner point, and on top of each circle was a smaller blue triangle.

"What's that?" Bill asked.

Next, they saw the name "Fantago Art Gallery" in Century City. And then the image dissolved.

"Well, that was mysterious," Ralph said.

"You didn't get any names?"

"No. Just the odd mark. Like the mark on my suit." Ralph's mind opened up to a radical idea. "Hey, maybe there's another spaceship with different aliens handing out suits, and that's their symbol."

Bill's eyes became blank as his face paled to a snowy white. Ralph grew alarmed as he thought he saw Bill's head beginning to circle around as if he was close to fainting. He put his hand on the chest of his friend to steady him. "Joke, Bill. Joke. Just a joke. Don't pass out on me, here."

Bill shook himself, straightening out his whole back, and did a very long throat clearing, as the color slowly returned to his usually nicely tanned skin. "That is not funny, Ralph."

"Well, it was kind of funny…You should have seen your face--"

"NOT funny."

"Okay, okay. I suppose we should visit that art gallery. It's closed by now, so how about tomorrow after school?"

Bill had gotten used to working in Ralph's teaching duties with his FBI needs. "I'll pick you up at 3:30. That'll give me a little time to run the symbol through the computer and see if anything comes up." He glared at his partner. "Aside from brand new aliens."

"It was just a teensy bit funny," Ralph smiled. "You know, they could be blue, or pink. Maybe mauve. Yeah, little mauve guys."

"Don't make me shoot you, Ralph."

"Go ahead, I'm in my magic jammies," Ralph grinned, while covering half his face with his cape. "Bwah-hah-hah-hah!"

As Bill's eyes rolled up nearly into his forehead, and he groaned an "Oh, brother", a lovely female voice came out of the kitchen. "Dessert is almost ready! Sweet dumplings, azuki bean jello, and plum cakes!"

"Boy, she couldn't stand the tofu and still had to make weird desserts," Bill said softly to Ralph. Then, in a broader voice he announced to the whole house, "Well, look at the time," tapping his wrist watch as he stood up. "I gotta put gas in my car."

"Bill--!"

"Stay married, kid! Munch those dumplings!" he whispered to his partner. And with that, Bill opened the front door, yelled out, "See ya later, folks!" and zipped outside.

Ralph came "this close" to turning invisible, but then saw his beautiful wife with her beautiful grin and her beautiful eyes pleading for support. "Did Bill have to leave?" she asked, obviously disappointed. Ralph unhesitatingly grabbed two plum cakes off the tray and put one in his wife's mouth and one in his. A kiss on the lips brought out all the sweetness.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

Bill's research into the symbol at the FBI hit pay dirt in the afternoon. Scouring paper and computer files, he discovered that the symbol was a representation of an up and coming crime syndicate based in England. Ho boy, he thought, as usual things always wound up being deeper than appearances. He contacted Interpol and got more information. The syndicate was responsible for several bank robberies, assassinations, and drug running, and probably a lot more Interpol wasn't yet aware of. The triangle/circle symbol wasn't wholly understood—they hadn't had any criminal from the syndicate interpret its meaning for them. When they asked how Bill had learned about the symbol there in Los Angeles, he said his usual line—via a trusted informer—and didn't explain further.

Maxwell asked them to fax over a list of known professional bombers in Europe, and they agreed to get it to him within the next 24-48 hours. Computers, faxes—technology had certainly positively transformed the FBI in the twenty years Maxwell had been slogging along as an agent. Made it easier to nail the creeps who deserved to rot in jail.

Hanging up the phone, Maxwell wondered how four American businessmen had been associated with an English based international crime syndicate. The men were different ages, and had gone to different Ivy League universities. What was the connection? Having his intuition tell him this was something vital to investigate, he spent some time contacting the company representatives of each of the four businessmen who had been killed. Through them, he found out whether their offices were still maintained or if another businessmen was already set up in a redecorated office. Two of the offices were already taken up by a new person, while two were still empty and not yet cleaned out by the family. Although Ralph had holographed in on the art gallery, it seemed that today it made sense to first investigate whether any of these four men were somehow themselves associated with the English symbol. Ralph might be able to help him out doing that, in case the symbol was hidden away too successfully for Maxwell to find it on his own.

Maxwell nodded to himself regarding his productive day. Sometimes good old Federal brains could work just as well as magic suits. Oops! It was 3:00 p.m. Time to leave to pick up Ralph. Maxwell got up when Carlisle walked into the common agents room, filled with numerous small desks and busy federal agents. Maxwell suppressed the low groan that almost always snuck out of him when Carlisle appeared. He was usually Carlisle's target.

Today was no different.

"So, Maxwell, any luck so far?" Carlisle asked, hoping to embarrass Bill into noting publicly in front of his colleagues in the room that he had nothing so far.

"Uh, a little, Sir," Maxwell said, as he threw his coffee cup away. "The deaths seem to be related to an English crime syndicate trying to establish itself here in the States."

Carlisle was speechless for a moment. "An English crime syndicate? How did you find that out?" How did he find out all these remarkable connections?

Maxwell shrugged. "Just some work with the phones, paper files, computers, and confirmation from Interpol. Oh, and a professional explosives expert seems to be our man. Interpol is sending over likely suspects. Look, I've got a few key leads to investigate. I'll fill you in, later, boss." He waited a moment for Carlisle to agree to his departure and Carlisle waved him off. As Maxwell left, Carlisle noticed most of the women ogling the muscular back of the oblivious Bill as he passed through the door. Oh, god, not that, too. Carlisle was aware of the newer agents beginning to idolize Maxwell and his unorthodox ways. Now did he have to start dealing with this? Swooning females with crushes on Bill? He'd have to send out a memo reminding agents of the career perils of office romances.

Once Bill was gone, the agents deliberately avoiding looking at him. No doubt they were thinking Maxwell had won this round, and Carlisle agreed he had. Let alone Maxwell had discovered, in one day, a potentially problematic addition of serious crime in the country. How did he do it? Sometimes Carlisle saw himself as Chief Inspector Dreyfus to Maxwell's Inspector Closeau, and returning to his office, he wondered if he one day he'd develop a stress induced, insidious eye tick himself.

Bill pulled up into the Whitney High School parking lot as Ralph was chatting with his four favorite students, Tony, Rhonda, Rodriquez, and Cyler. Bill would have rather died than admit it, but he liked those kids, especially Tony Villacana, who kind of reminded Bill of himself nearly forty years ago. Tough on the outside, insecure on the inside, Villacana strode around acting like a punk, betrayed openly by the fact he was, in truth, a good kid with no real desire for violence or for criminally acting out. If Bill could get his hands on the kid for two weeks, he was sure he could smooth out Villacana's rough edges. In the meantime, their interactions were like two rocks smacking against each other, waiting for the other one to crack first. Bill enjoyed it immensely and he had a pretty clear inkling that Villacana did, too. Rhonda, Tony's girlfriend, was caring and civil, Cyler was the only one with a working brain in his head, and Rodriquez and his meaningless chattering was easy to ignore.

Bill came up to the five of them, taking off his aviator sunglasses in his patented sideways swipe as he approached.

"Hello, Bill," Ralph said.

"Ralph," Bill said, keeping his eyes on Tony.

"Oh, if it isn't the FBI's lamest Fed," Tony said, smiling broadly. "What are you doing around here, Maxwell? Looking for high school students who have crossed the state line?"

"Villacana, your car's registration is two months overdue," Bill said, correctly pointing to the registration stickers on Tony's back license plate. "That's a $50 fine."

"That's not your jurisdiction," Tony complained, nervously eying the plate.

"I've got a couple of cop friends who'll love to take care of it for me."

Ralph sighed deeply as Tony and Maxwell kept a long gaze on each other.

"Man, you just love busting my chops, don't you, Maxwell?" Tony asked.

"Ditto, Villacana."

"Yeah, yeah, alright."

"Look, kids, it's always so much fun to share with you all, I just get tingly all over, but I need to speak to Ralph alone, so exit stage right, pronto," Bill said, flicking his thumb to the side. "You, darling," he added, pointing at Rhonda, "you keep your boyfriend in check."

She nodded, used to hearing Mr. Maxwell tell her that; he seemed to be his signature closing line when the four of them were around. She liked Maxwell herself. She remembered that time on St. Croix, when she had gone looking for Tony after warding off the attack by Dicky the Octopus. He was supposedly staying on the boat Mr. Maxwell and the Hinkleys had found. But, Tony was gone and the boat looked ransacked. It was the middle of the night and she became terrified; she ran out of the front of the boat right into Mr. Maxwell, and it was one of the most comforting experiences of her life. "Oh, hold it, hold it, kid, it's Maxwell", she remembered him saying and in that second she had never felt so safe in her life, with him solid and strong, holding onto her. She was reluctant to let go of him and kept her hand on his arm until he broke free to check out the cabin. Yeah, he was mouthy and sometimes obnoxious, but he was also Mr. Hinkley's best friend and he took his job of protecting people seriously. Hadn't he been invaluable in getting Tony out of jail and saving her mom from the Russians? Her mom really liked him; sometimes they hung out together, went to movies together. Yeah, Rhonda had no doubt Mr. Maxwell was a true blue good guy, and she was pretty sure Tony knew it himself. "Alright, Mr. Maxwell," she replied with a quick nod.

She waved good-bye to her teacher, while the three other male teens acted out in offhand insults and mumbled complaints. The four of them got into Tony's flame-painted car and drove away.

"You might as well adopt him as a foster child, Bill," Ralph said.

"What are you talking about? Adopt who?"

"Whom. Tony. It's becoming harder to hide how much you like him."

"I'm just trying to keep my eye on him for the sake of society. He's a criminal in the making. I'm sure it's our Justice Department who'll adopt him one day."

Why Bill was so resistant to admitting to Ralph he liked Tony, even Bill didn't know.

"You know that's not true. If I ever get that mind push power back, I'm going to make you say 'I like Tony Villacana'."

"Oh, good, then I can consider you a real jerk, too, like the Counselor did. Look, can we get back on the case? The one with all the people being blown all to pieces?"

"Yeah, yeah, okay. Let me get the suit out of the back of my station wagon." As he pulled it out he asked, "So, we're going to Fantago's Art Gallery?"

"No, I've got other plans for this afternoon." In Bill's Diplomat, Bill explained to Ralph the new information he had discovered.

"That's terrific investigatory work, Bill. Carlisle must be proud."

"Gimme a break, Ralph. I've been doing this for twenty years." Still, secretly, Bill was pleased at Ralph's compliment.

They wound up at Global Enterprises, Inc, first, the closest to Ralph's school. With just a little badge waving and a surprisingly polite nature, Bill and Ralph were lead up to the twenty-seventh floor of the GEI office building, and allowed entrance into Harold Perkins office. They asked for privacy and closed the door behind them, locking it, to ensure it was maintained. It was a large office filled with mahogany furniture, a wet bar, long sofas, and it's own bathroom. The windows gave a magnificent view of the L.A. skyline.

"Boy, I should have gotten a business degree," Ralph said, going into the bathroom to change into his suit.

"Tell me about it. I can't afford the ashtray on his desk." Bill said as he lifted it up and read the 'Waterford crystal' sticker on the bottom. "His cigarettes were probably wrapped in silk paper."

Ralph came out of the bathroom all shiny red, attaching his black cape around his neck. "So, what are we looking for?"

"Anything in connection to the symbol," Bill said. "See if you can vibe something."

They walked randomly around the room, Ralph starting at the desk and the drawers and date book, and Bill wandering around to study all the certificates and artwork hanging on the walls. Edgefield High School. Princeton University BA Business. Harvard MA Business. Rotary Club Award. A highly lauded Stevie Business award. Some awful, garish rainbow colored painting. Pictures of him and his wife, kids, dog.

Ralph closed the last desk drawer. "Nothing here." He walked to his partner and as he got closer to the wall, he started noticing that odd alien feeling which meant he was getting helpful vibe energy. "Hey, I'm picking up something."

"Well, do your thing, kid," Bill instructed, moving out of the way.

Ralph lifted up his hands and was drawn to a little rectangular wooden box with a lock on it. "This. I'm feeling something with this." Ralph began trying to open up the box by snipping off the lock with his fingers, but, as he commonly did when excited, he misgauged his strength and in a second the whole box had fractured into pieces.

Bill pulled the corners of his mouth down into a "Yikes" look. "Ralph, watch it! We don't want to trash the place. It's a dead guy's memorial."

"Sorry." Ralph put the pieces on the long, low table, and he and Bill opened the box, examining the contents. There was a cushioned bottom with the mark of the triangle/circle design embossed on it. A little scroll of white paper sat on top of it.

"There's our symbol," Bill said. "What's the scroll say?"

Ralph took the scroll out and unrolled it. The only thing written on it was "$100,000 or Help As Specified."

"'$100,000 or Help as Specified'? What does that mean?" Ralph asked.

"I don't know," Bill said gravely. "But, I've got a bad feeling about this. Was Perkins involved in an English Crime Syndicate? Look at those certificates. He seemed to be getting awards for endless charity work." Bill paused, growing deadly serious. "Then, again, I've seen some of the worst criminal creeps arranging their lives so they look like angels to socialites and charitable organizations. Guys like that make me sick."

"Well, don't judge him, yet. We don't know the full story."

"Yeah. He could have been an honest guy. Look, put your clothes on and let's check out the other three businessmen. I'm beginning to think we may hit four out of four in the triangle derby today."

It took several more hours, going to another office and then rummaging through boxes of office stuff in the homes of two of the deceased men, but all three had wooden boxes, which when—"Gently, Ralph!"--opened up, had triangle/circular embossed cushions with scrolls resting on them. The other three scrolls were equally cryptic: all of them had the exact same phrase as had Harold Perkins'.

When relatives were asked about the boxes, they were told the boxes had been around forever, never opened as long as they knew, and never spoken about. They were enigmas.

What was the connection between the men? They didn't know each other; they didn't work together or socialize together. None had gone to the same undergraduate university, being graduates of Princeton, Temple, Stanford, and Rutgers, although they all had graduated within a five year time span. What was the connection? Bill and Ralph sulked, unable to pull the case together.

It wasn't until they were silently driving back to Whitney High, to drop off Ralph at his car, that Bill's mind pieced it together.

"Of course, why didn't I think of this earlier! Ralph, what ties together four men, different ages, different universities, same obscure symbol?"

"I don't know, what?"

"Fraternities!"

Ralph realized that was truly a brilliant idea. It had to be the answer. He glanced at his friend. They did make a great partnership. Him and his magic suit, and Bill and his FBI experience. "You know, Bill, you really aren't as stupid as you act." Thoughtful pause. "Or look." Thoughtful pause. "Or sound."

Bill's self-satisfied smile evaporated into a mope, as he dead-panned, "Thanks, Ralph, thanks a lot. You and the counselor always bring sunshine and bluebirds into my life."

"My pleasure, pardner," Ralph smiled, patting Bill's shoulder fondly. "My pleasure."

It was home for Ralph, to fill in his wife on the case's progress, and back to the office for Bill, toting a deli bag with turkey sandwich, cole slaw, and diet pop with him. Finding out symbols for every fraternity in the country using the computer and paper research was going to be an arduous process, he figured. No need doing it hungry.

Then, tomorrow, follow-up on the lead at Fantago Gallery. Things were coalescing nicely together, but no clear pattern had yet formed. Bill had confidence, though, that he and Ralph would pull things together quickly.

Even with six or seven cups of coffee in him, and as a result, two or three antacids, Bill was a wave of yawns by 2:00 a.m. He had wasted a couple of hours when he came across the Triangle Fraternity, active at many universities in American, delving deeply into it's origins. Then, he realized that the schools where this fraternity was active did not contain the four his businessmen matriculated at, and the field of studies allowable for entrance did not contain business. Just about when he knew he had to get some sleep, he stumbled upon a small reference to Alpha Alpha Omega, which the FBI files listed as a by invitation only college organization, with secret meetings. Like the Masons, but only for some select group of undergraduates. All four of the universities the dead men attended were supposed to contain an Alpha Alpha Omega organization, as well as University of California at Berkeley and Northwest University. The symbol for AAO was a triangle, with three circles on the points, and three smaller triangles on the circles. Bingo once again.

Somehow the fraternity was associated with crime syndicates and bombs. But, how? What tied them together?

It was enough for one day. Bill stretched his tall body, stiff from squatting over a computer, then threw his food and beverage trash away, put on his jacket, and left the Bureau building. When he was younger he could stay up the whole night doing research and then work an energetic next day. He didn't have that endurance anymore, but his stamina wasn't too far off. A few hours of sleep and he'd be ready to carry on.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

Bill spent the first part of the day letting Carlisle know how the case was progressing, actually getting a positive comment or two, and a "Be careful, Bill" from his cranky boss as a result. Not too bad for a Friday. Writing up the case so far took another hour or so.

He next spoke to family members of the deceased on the phone, asking them if they knew about Alpha Alpha Omega. One of them admitted knowing of the Fraternity and her husband's old participation in it as an under-graduate.

"Did he continue staying in contact with any members of the organization?" Bill asked.

"I don't know. Maybe," the wife had answered.

"What do you mean, 'maybe', ma'am?"

"Well, I came home early from my bridge club and I remember Arnold having an argument with a man in the study. I didn't go in but could easily hear them from behind the doors. I caught the tale end of it, with Arnold saying something like 'I don't want anything to do with it. The hell with Alpha Alpha Omega.'" She paused, as if embarrassed. "He very rarely cursed. He was a kind man. I became a little frightened. I'm quite timid, you see. The man left then. He didn't see me as I hid around the corner. Arnold wouldn't talk about the fight at all and told me to forget all about it. He was…killed…two weeks later."

Bill heard the woman's sniffles and her shaky voice as she tried to contain her emotions. Keeping his professional demeanor in tact he asked, "Who was he? The man your husband argued with. Do you know?"

"I think so. I went with a friend to an art gallery once, and remembered meeting the owner; it looked just like the same man. A 'Mr. Felipe Culdero'?"

"Which art gallery was that, ma'am?"

"Oh, it was in Century City…Fantago's." She sniffled once more. "Do you think he anything to do with my husband's death?"

"I don't know, ma'am, but please be assured I'm going to find out."

Quick calls to the other family members let to further reports of their husbands being unusually silent and withdrawn the week or two before their deaths. One woman reported her husband discussing with her the possibility of him making a police report about someone he knew, and then shrugging it off. No one else specifically mentioned Culdero.

Bill hung up the phone, his agile tongue dancing around the corners of his mouth as his mind raced. If Culdero had had an unexpected argument at a home with his first victim Popolopokis, with the possibility of wives and children around, it made sense that his meetings with the other businessmen would have been more private and relatives would have no knowledge of it. No need to have witnesses around seeing his face.

Bill's interest in seeing Culdero had grown immeasurably.

He relayed all this to Ralph after picking him up at the school. Ralph had already changed so that his suit was under his clothes.

"Gee, Bill, you're doing all the work on your own. You trying to impress me?" Ralph asked, a little sulky, feeling that he and his suit were hardly contributing to the cause.

"What are you talking about? It was your holographing on the symbol that cracked the case wide open. And I have a feeling an avalanche is heading down the hill soon."

They arrived at the art gallery a little after 4:00. It was one of those galleries containing high end modern art, $2000 for "psychodelic junk a toddler could paint with melted crayons" as Bill described the paintings he saw in a quick circumference of the gallery contents. They were approached by the only sales person in the gallery, a 30-something effete man in an expensive suit, wearing cologne and diamond cufflinks.

"I'm Gerard. May I help you?", he asked, his French accent unmistakable.

Bill took out his identification and flashed it at the surprised man. "Hello, Gerard. My name is Maxwell. I'm with the FBI. He's Ralph Hinkley." Maxwell put his badge back in his inside jacket pocket, as Ralph said "Hey, Pam might like that," and wandered away looking at the artwork. Egghead culture lover, Maxwell thought, as he began his enquiries. "Is Felipe Culdero here?"

"No. He's at home."

"Does he often work from home?"

"He's preparing for a party to be held there soon. He is very…precise…in his preparations. Who's that?" he asked, looking at Ralph.

"Friend of the family. What's Culdero's address?"

"Oh, let me check with him to make sure it's acceptable for you to visit." Gerard went to a desk in the corner, dialed a number and spoke on the phone for a minute or two, his eyes staying planted on Ralph's movements. Hanging up he then wrote out the address, coming back and handing it to Maxwell. "He says he'll see you if the visit is short. He has many things to take care of before the party."

"Thanks." Bill said. He turned and walked over to a pedestal, where Ralph was studying a little foot high bronze of a man and woman uniquely intertwined. "Is that possible in real life?" Bill asked.

Ralph continued to study the piece of art. "Not without dislocating your shoulder….or her shoulder…"

"Probably came from the Coma Sutra," Bill said, bowing down next to Ralph, also ensnared in the amazingly co-joined sculpted bodies. "Look, he's got to be choking off her air flow."

"Boy," Ralph added, "you'd sure have to be super-limber. Probably only a pair of gymnasts could do this, or some yoga fanatics."

Gerard came up to them, standing next to Ralph. "We have one by the same artist of two men together," he said, pointing at another bronze on a pedestal across the gallery. "It's over there."

Bill and Ralph opened their eyes widely and stood up, quickly stepping away from each other.

Bill shook his head like a wet cat removing water from its fur, clearing his mind of all bronze statue postures. "Ralph, let's go."

He got no disagreement from his friend, who walked outside next to Bill asking, "Why would he say that--?"

"Wishful thinking. He was eyeing you like a wolf stalking a deer," Bill answered with a smile.

"But, but, I'm married!" He held up his ring finger, the gold band around it shining brightly.

"It's those blond curls and your scrawny body. Perfect fodder for "those" kind of fellows, I guess."

Ralph stood still too disconcerted to keep walking as Bill opened his car door with a giggle, and got inside. Finally, Ralph's less than rapid wit kicked in and he yelled, "I'm not scrawny!"

Bill leaned out the window. "Ralph, would you get in? Gerard is starting to drool."

Ralph looked back and Gerard indeed was leering at him from the window. He dove into the car, his arms crossed, a heavy cloud over his head, while Bill kept his mile wide, closed mouth smile on his face for almost the whole ride to Culdero's.

The drive to Culdero's address took a good thirty minutes. It was in a very nice residential district, mostly all condos. They had to park the car down the street from Culdero's building as parking was tight.

Culdero's condo was on the second floor. They approached the door and Bill was going to knock when they read what appeared to be a hastily written note taped by the lion-headed knocker.

Ralph ripped the note down. "Agent Maxwell. Please go inside. I had to leave to visit the florist for a minute. I should be back by 5:00 p.m."

Ralph's eyes began glazing over a little and he undid his tie and first couple of shirt buttons. "Bill, I'm getting a vibe on the note." He stared at the writing, "Bill, look at this." He put his arm on Bill's shoulder, and Bill scrunched his face together as his vision freakishly filled with a picture of something that wasn't right there. God, he hated seeing holographs. But then, he opened his eyes a bit and watched. He saw a white haired male senior, around sixty years old, with a thin mustache, building a bomb, intricately attaching wires to plastic explosives.

"This must be our guy, Ralph. He's gotta have his next target planned. But, geez, shouldn't he be playing shuffleboards or canasta, not blowing people up? Seems kind of old."

Ralph didn't like the man. His energy was distorted, ugly, mean. "Why don't we go inside and look around while he's gone? Maybe we can find enough evidence to arrest him when he returns."

"Yeah, okay, good idea." Bill turned the doorknob and it was indeed unlocked. He opened the door and, his gut feeling acting up a little, he put his hand on Ralph's chest and said, "Let's be careful."

They entered into the condo entranceway, a wide square hallway. There was a study to the left, a living room and dining room in front of them, kitchen off the dining room, another bedroom to the right, and a den around the corner from the living room. Everything was open, spacious and very rich: fine art, gaudily framed paintings, Berger carpeting, lushly upholstered furniture.

"I'll start in the study," Ralph said, beginning to undress down to his suit. "Looks like he's been working in there."

Bill nodded and continued in the condo. Checking out each room, he found it to be empty of people and any clues he could find. He wandered over to the windows looking out into the street below.

"Nothing in the study," Ralph said, joining Bill in the living room area. "Wait a second, there's something here…" He put his hand on the marble fireplace mantle.

Bill asked, "What are you seeing?"

"It's an apartment or something. Purple and green furniture, a picture of some Italian village, number 203…wait a second…"

Bill noticed the purple and green furniture and the picture of the Italian village in the den, around the corner from where Ralph stood, so out of his immediate vision. Culdero's condo was #203. He sighed. "Ralph, we've done this skit before at the Counselor's law firm. You're holographing the condo we're in."

Ralph took his hands off the wall, his eyes wide in fear. "Then the bomb is in here, in this condo—"

Bill's face opened equally in shock. "What? Here?" And then it all came together; the whole set up, bringing him and Ralph here, the empty condo, the unlocked door, the booby-trap, and how he had fallen for it, like the newest, greenest rookie.

"Here! Bill--!" Ralph ran to his partner, lifting his cape to try to protect him, when the bomb went off like a crack of thunder sent by Thor himself.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

What saved Bill Maxwell's life was the fact the bomb was in the mantle, slightly around the corner from him, and that he had been standing right by a window. Thus, when the force of the bomb exploded, Bill was blown out the window, not into a wall, while Ralph's cape blocked debris that might have eviscerated him.

The noise of the explosion surprised everyone in the whole block and those on the sidewalk below ducked instinctively for cover as bit of glass and wall flew out and fell on cars and people.

Bill Maxwell crashed through the window, the broken shards tearing deeply into the back of his scalp and the side of his left upper leg. He landed hard on top of a furniture delivery truck parked at the curb, his right wrist hitting first, before smacking his right shoulder and hip. His momentum caused him to roll right off the truck onto a car, which had slammed to a stop next to the truck upon seeing the explosion. Bill hit the car roof on his right side again, frightening its occupants, and continued his motion to fly off it as well. He wound up landing in the street on his stomach, the left side of his face scrapping along the pavement, as he spun another couple of times, winding up on his back, relatively spread eagle, stunned and immobile, directly in the path of a car traveling thirty mph the opposite way down the street from the stopped car.

Ralph's lifting his cape had protected both him and Bill from some of the flying debris the bomb initiated, but hadn't done enough to keep his friend from experiencing the extremis of an explosion. Ralph himself was thrown by the bomb into the far wall of the condo, which took his breath away for a second, but the marble, walls and ceiling which struck and covered his body did him no other harm. Throwing the rubble off, a dusty Ralph stumbled over to the decimated window. He looked out, horrified to see Bill lying helplessly in the street as a car bore down on him. There was no time for "white paper," no time to stop and concentrate his telekinesis power—it never even dawned on Ralph to do so. In his panic, he simply lifted up his hand and yelled "STOP!" to the car, mentally demanding it do so.

The car screeched to a halt six feet from Bill's head. Fortunately the driver and passenger had seat belts on, or they would have been thrust through the windshield by the sudden, inexplicable stopping of their vehicle. Ordering the car to not start up again, Ralph put his hand down, his whole body shaking in his emotional turmoil, as Bill's words from the previous evening obsessed him, "But, I've got you watching out for me, Ralph." Ralph hadn't done a very good job of that, to his grave dismay.

It was then he heard Bill call out his name.

Bill lay on the road, thinking his head was in a puddle, even though his muddled mind recalled it hadn't rained in L.A. for a month. But, it was wet back there on his head and neck. People were leaning over him, apparently speaking, but he couldn't hear them; they mouthed words of silence, as if some Twilight Zone remote control had clicked the whole world to "mute". None of the people, however, were Ralph.

"Ralph?" he yelled, his voice louder than normal due to his deafness, even though he couldn't hear the word himself. His whole right side was excruciating—his wrist, shoulder, hip--the pains like a serrated knife being twisted in the joints. His head throbbed as if it was being pounded repeatedly against the street. Still, he had to sit up. He had to find Ralph. People tried to keep him down, but he shoved them away, demanding "Ralph!", as he pushed up with his left arm struggling into a seated position. Blood dripped in tiny drops from his left jaw, but the burning rawness of his face was mild compared to his wounded joints.

There was a car very close to him, and the driver seemed to be trying to turn it over without success, finally giving up with a punch to the steering wheel. Lucky it hadn't run him over…

It was almost impossible to move anymore. He could not budge his right arm, and he could hardly put pressure on his hip. From his sitting position, he got his left leg bent underneath him, mixing street gravel into his jagged laceration. He used his left arm and leg to scoot closer to the car to his side, next to the delivery trunk, the car his addled memory thought he had landed on. It had its passenger window rolled down, giving him access to using the door to pull himself up. Bill grabbed hold of the car door with his left hand, and driving up with his left leg, he somehow managed to stand. People put their hands on him to try to lay him back down, and he continued to shrug them off, shaking his head hard enough a few of them were splattered with his blood. He leaned onto the car hood, trying to breathe some air in his lungs, and get the terrible pains under control so he could chase away the growing dizziness.

"Ralph!" he called, looking up at the ruins of the Culdero condo. Please, god, he hadn't erred in his estimation of the suit's capacity to withstand an explosion. Please, let Ralph be okay. He had to be okay. Bill couldn't hear his panting breaths, the drag of his right foot, the car owner telling Bill he was a doctor, or people inquiring who Ralph was, and if he had been in the condo, as well. The absolute stillness was eerie and seemed to enhance his weakness. Dragging his right leg, any pressure on his foot causing agonizingly sharp stabs in his hip, he kept up an awkward hopping gait. Leaning over, he used the strength of his left arm as a lever to lift his left leg up the curb. He could see the long straight vertical rent in his trousers and the blood from his thigh wound turning his leg dark red, but it was still usable where his right leg was not. Pushing away from the car, he slowly traveled a path back to the door of the condo building. He ignored the liquid flowing continually from his scalp, drops sliding down his back to soak his shirt and the top of his trousers, as he fought desperately to keep an encroaching faint from over-taking him. Yet after only a few more feet, and seemingly a galaxy away from the doorway, he could go no further. The world was beginning to spin, and he saw strangers with concerned eyes, cars, and the sky twirling quickly around him. He closed his eyes, hoping the world would rotate less if he couldn't see it happening, and yelled "Ralph!" again. Nothing. No answer. His body was weakening, he was going down and his friend could be hurt, dying, dead… Bill's despair gave a last lingering power to his voice, the harsh scraping in his throat his only indication his cry was actually vocal. "Raaalph!"

Suddenly, Bill felt an invisible arm grab hold of his torso, holding onto him, holding him up, taking the strain off his hip.

People looked at Bill, disbelieving what they saw—a badly injured man seemingly looking at nothing, gripping nothing, running his left hand over nothing, resting his head on nothing. He was obviously seriously concussed and hallucinating. He asked the nothing a booming "Are you alright?", and they saw his hand in the air go up and down as if his hand was nodding, a non-verbal positive answer for a deaf man. Upon that happening the man relaxed, allowing his eyes to close as he began a bizarre and baffling slow motion descent to the ground. Collapsing forward, his body lowered itself in minute motions, his long legs bending incrementally until his knees were inches above the sidewalk, finally coming down on them extremely delicately. His body then tilted backwards, lowering in such a controlled fashion the man wound up gently on his back on the sidewalk, like a butterfly coming to rest, his bloody head last to softly touch the cement, as if he had been lowered by wires too thin to be seen.

"An angel," a woman whispered. "It's his guardian angel, Ralph." Although there were no other explanations, that one was met with skepticism based on fear of the supernatural, fear of the unknown, and the idea the woman was Looney Tunes. It didn't matter, anyway, how the man had overcome the law of gravity in his fall to the ground. He was lying there now, still hurt, unconscious, bleeding, perhaps entering shock; certainly not miraculously cured by any celestial being. Now that the man could not fight it, help needed to be applied. The doctor went to Bill's side, using his own tie to apply pressure to the deep scalp wound, asking someone else to do the same to the bleeding leg wound, and another man complied. He had others elevate Bill's legs, resting them on a bag of used clothing a woman brought from her car. He asked someone to get a blanket for cover and a woman ran into her apartment to do so. Opening up Bill's brown jacket, the doctor undid Bill's tie and loosened his shirt buttons, noticing Bill's official looking double holster in the process. He figured the unknown man was a law officer of some sort. The danger these men put themselves in for the good of society, it was incredible, he thought, continuing his pressure on Bill's deep wound. The blanket appeared and was placed over Bill's limp body. The doctor checked Bill's carotid pulse--it was rapid, but strong--and noted the slow, steady rise and fall of his chest. It was all they could do until professional help arrived. Once or twice as the sirens neared the doctor had an odd sense of someone standing by him, watching, but a quick look behind him did not uncover anyone there, which settled down the tingling hairs on his neck. Soon after the paramedics, police and firemen arrived, along with news hounds, and took over the scene. While the condo was entered to find no other bomb victims, Bill was put into an ambulance and taken to a hospital.

People dispersed talking excitedly about the incident as the doctor stood wiping his hands clean of blood on his handkerchief. Someone whispered a quiet, yet earnest, "Thanks for helping him!" into his left ear. The doctor turned around to say it was all in a day's work, only to be confronted by empty space, and a renewal of his hair standing on end. He wondered if it would be too silly to ask his rabbi if Jews believed in angels.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

Internist Dr. Peter Henderson was alerted that his long-term patient was in the hospital by the ER docs who had spent several hours diagnosing his injuries and stitching and plastering up a couple of them. Sitting at a desk, Henderson rested his forehead on his hand as he read the ER chart notes. Having been Bill Maxwell's physician for the last ten years, and liking the man, Henderson could hardly believe that Bill was back in a hospital, injured once more. His chart notes already required the use of two separate charts, and most of them had been written in the last three years. Previous to three years ago, Bill mostly came in to treat heartburn, ulcers, and headaches. He'd get yearly blood work which was frustratingly normal for cholesterol and triglycerides (thus keeping Bill convinced his diet of burgers and coffee was healthy), and, have his blood pressure taken which was also well within normal limits. For the last three years though, in the beginning of the sunset of his active agent years, Bill had become a fairly regular visitor to ER departments. Henderson did a quick review of his chart, mentally noting his broken bones, gunshots, concussions, the one skull fracture, and the odd request for sleeping pills due to occasional nightmares, nightmares which Bill refused to discuss, and which he had never had previous to three years ago.

Henderson also doubted many of Bill's explanations for how his bones had been broken. A bad guy crushing his hand in a door broke his right hand. He apparently had suffered several falls—from a ladder, from a stairway, from a chair—which caused his skull fracture, his hip sprain, and his ankle sprain. He broke his elbow being shoved into a brick wall. The excuses, most of them specious to say the least, went on and on.

How Bill's fifty-four year old body got out of bed everyday without being stiff as a board, Dr. Henderson didn't know. Bill was tough, and obviously had good genes, and an astounding capacity to heal, but age was age, and couldn't be denied. Bill had accepted his need for reading glasses, but seemed to be resistant to considering a less active FBI job, even though his chances for serious arthritis developing in the near future was pretty high.

And, now, his new injuries. Being nearly blown up, for god's sake! Dr. Henderson read on, his lips a thin line of disapproval. Twenty stitches in his scalp and twenty one in his leg. The right sided wrist fracture and Stage II acromioclavicular shoulder separation; the right sided hip pointer. The road burn of the left side of his face and all the other assorted bruises all over his body from playing tag with a trunk, car and road. That he had not been filled with shrapnel, or had a limb torn off was nothing short of a miracle.

Dr. Henderson left his office and wandered through the hospital to Bill's room. He was not surprised to find Bill's friend Ralph Hinkley there, sitting in a chair by Bill's bed. Ralph frequently brought Bill to the hospital, even though he wasn't with the FBI himself. How Ralph was involved Henderson didn't understand; questions on that subject were met with mumbled hemming and hawing. And something else was strange regarding Ralph Hinkley. Often, Dr. Henderson thought he saw guilt written all over Ralph's face when Bill's injury(ies) were explained to him. What Hinkley was culpable for, Dr. Henderson had no idea. How could Hinkley, a high school teacher, be responsible for Bill's injuries? There were so many peculiarities in their relationship, although Henderson knew the affection between them was sincerely genuine. Ralph was always a constant visitor to Bill when he was in the hospital, which Henderson knew Bill sincerely appreciated. Too bad Ralph was not very good at getting Bill to stay under medical supervision as long as Henderson wished. Bill's allergy to "three hots and a cot" was remarkable and he sometimes left the hospital in a condition for which most people would be admitted.

Ralph looked up at the internist. "Hello, Dr. Henderson. You heard about Bill?"

"Yes, the ER docs contacted me."

"I haven't had the whole explanation of his injuries explained to me. Would you mind doing so?"

Why not, Henderson thought? He'd done so too many times in the past three years to count. He glanced at his sleeping patient, disturbed by what a medical mess he was. A tight bandage wrapped around his entire head protecting his scalp wound, leaving a spray of brown hair visible at the top of his head. Blueness and abrasions could be seen slipping out from around the bandage adhered to the left side of his face. His right wrist was encased in a plaster cast, the whole arm in a sling. An ice pack rested on his right shoulder and hip. IV antibiotics and fluids entered into the vein on the top of his left hand.

"Well," Henderson began, "His hearing returned in the ER; he could communicate with the doctors. That's good." Ralph was glad about that. Like everyone else at the bomb scene, when Ralph had descended to the street he had logically discerned Bill's deafness via the slight amount of blood coming out of his ears, his complete lack of response to what anyone said, and his screaming if Ralph was alright. Nodding his head with Bill's hand on it had thankfully settled his partner down immediately.

Dr. Henderson went on speaking and Ralph tuned back in. "--head laceration went all the way down to his skull, which accounts for his notable bleeding. He'll need to wear that bandage around his head for the next couple of weeks, to keep it protected and from getting an infection. Luckily, the gash in his thigh was not as pronounced; it didn't go through the skin into his muscles or ligaments. What else? You can see by the cast he's obviously got a broken right wrist. His right shoulder suffered a shoulder separation which is when his clavicle, uh, collar bone, separates from the scapula, that is, the shoulder blade." Dr. Henderson pointed on his own shoulder the area involved and how the joint was separated. "It's not bad enough to require surgery, but it's going to hurt like the dickens for a couple of weeks. What's going to hurt even more for the next week is his right hip pointer."

"Hip pointer? Isn't that a football injury?"

"It's common in football but not exclusive to it. Bill must have landed hard on his hip and that bruised the iliac crest", he pointed to his own hip, showing where the crest was. "That causes a lot of bleeding into the area, some bruised tendons and ligaments, and a great deal of pain. The medical report indicates his whole right hip area is terribly contused, black and blue, in layman's terms, but there's no internal injuries."

"I see," Ralph said, getting that unmistakably guilty look again, and avoiding eye contact with him. Why the guilt? Ralph hadn't planted the bomb. It was terribly perturbing to Dr. Henderson.

"That ugly but minor facial laceration he received from scraping his cheek against unforgiving pavement shouldn't cause a scar. Doesn't look like he got another concussion; seems he passed out more from shock than a head injury." Henderson paused. "The good news is he's going to survive and recover. The bad news is for the next week or so, he's going to wish he was dead, pain-wise, if he tries to move much."

"He's not going to like that. He's active on a pretty important case."

Henderson sighed. "Isn't he always? Look, Ralph, you're his best friend aren't you?" Ralph nodded weakly, still not glancing at the doctor. "Can't you talk to Bill and get him to consider stopping his active agent duties? He doesn't listen to me. Maybe Bill could get promoted to supervisor somewhere or go teach at the Academy. Some job where he still feels he's making a valuable contribution to the country, but he isn't getting banged up all the time. He worries me."

"Me, too," Ralph said softly.

There was a long silence as Dr. Henderson noted Ralph didn't comment on his request for help in getting Bill a safer job. Some friend, he scoffed. He'll drag Bill into the ER and come to visit him when he's hurt, but won't help prevent it. With friends like that, we should all settle for dogs.

As the silence grew unbearable, Henderson strode in a huff out of the room. Ralph's guilty face didn't waver.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

Felipe Culdero was a very successful bomber. His technological skills were undeniably expert level, his bomb placement was pinpoint accurate for maximum destruction, his radio signals were timed just right, and his kill rate was high. He loved everything about bombs—the nerve-wracking process of building them, the planting of them in the most logical and effective place to ensure a proper assassination, the thunderous reverberation, the shock, chaos and fear it produced, the wreckage and devastation left in its wake. Culdero considered himself to be a consummate artist of bombs, a Michealangelo, a DaVinci of death.

Thus, his mood was not good as he sat in his car, fuming over Maxwell's apparent survival of the mantle explosion. He had been outside the condo when they arrived, ready with his radio signal device, knowing instinctively how long to wait to ensure Maxwell and his partner were inside, and vulnerable to attack. He had pushed the button, the bomb had naturally exploded. But, instead of Maxwell being crushed and torn apart by beams and brick, furniture and walls, he had flown out the window, his main fall broken by a truck and a car, dampening the effect of his landing on the hard ground. Culdero's face was twisted into frustration—his first bomb survival in over six years. As for Maxwell's partner, Ralph, he had been nowhere to find. Gone. Disappeared. Vaporized. But, Culdero was sure he was alive, too and must have escaped in all the confusion and milling about, so that even Culdero's eagle eyes had not espied him. Culdero disdained Ralph. Some partner. Not even going down to the street to help his injured friend. Hinkley's survival equally was as important as his abandonment of his partner. Both of them made him consider Hinkley to be lower than a worm.

Culdero held loyalty in the highest regard—he was obsessed about it. In face, all these recent bomb attacks he had instigated were due to disloyalty, to men who treated vows and rituals and promises as trash to be thrown out come next garbage day. He despised men like that. Men whose word was meaningless, who laid heartfelt claim to an eternal motto only to one day, thirty years later, simply laugh at it, and call it silly.

Culdero had been involved in Alpha Alpha Omega thirty years ago, when he, at age twenty-nine, had been the National Prime Head Master of the Fraternity. One of the country's smallest Greek Fraternities, AAO only had a presence on six campuses-- Princeton, Temple U, Stanford, Rutgers, University of California at Berkley, and Northwest U--and members were invited individually to join. Born and raised in Spain until he was eighteen, his immersion in AAO during his years at Stanford had affected him deeply, enough so that he had committed himself to rising up the organizational hierarchy of the Fraternity for some years afterward. He had plans, Culdero did, and he saw right away that the motto of AAO—To Strive, To Commit, To Win—had possibilities for his own future he simply had to have the patience to see come to fruition.

He instituted a ritual change in AAO that entailed the men, upon graduation, were sworn to uphold whatever they were told to do, and then were given secret scrolls to keep in locked wooden boxes until they were contacted by an AAO member. Only he knew what the scrolls portended.

All the AAO men took this oath, and received their scrolls, for the next five years, until Culdero left the Head Master job. The practice was discontinued after that by the Fraternity. Culdero returned to Spain with his own business degree, but his job was boring and his paycheck repugnant. He embezzled some money from his employee, but it was unsatisfying and insubstantial for the risks involved. In an act he considered Fate, he befriended an old English OSS drunk in Madrid one evening in a ratty bar where Culdero occasionally picked up prostitutes. Culdero fell in love with the stories of his WWII bomb exploits, and like an alcoholic always remembering his first drink, Culdero never forgot the first explosion his friend showed him in a field on Saturday, made with home-made materials one could purchase in a hardware store. It was a religious epiphany for Felipe Culdero, at age forty-one. He was "born again" into detonations.

He became a bomb addict. He read everything he could and soon had a huge knowledge base of skills. Realizing that the best way to practice his growing skills was to take his book knowledge and apply it, he delved into the criminal world. Among those men he could gather decent supplies, including plastic explosives, and have his talent be used and appreciated. Which it was, now and then. His was a fine art, not to be abused. He was put on a steady payroll by the local mafiosa, and paid well when he blew someone up. He traveled regularly as part of his job and by forty-eight had an international reputation for efficiency and effectiveness.

He aligned himself with the Irish Republican Army, for the sheer pleasure of being actively busy exploding bombs in England. He trained other IRA bombers too, such as the infamous "Balcombe Street Gang", which set off five bombs within ten days in England. He had liked England and aligned himself with the crime syndicates there.

Interpol set up a High Priority file on him, but he was never caught, never arrested.

But, Europe did grow hot for him. He escaped three assassination attempts of his own, from family members of those killed by him. Police tracked him down a couple of times, and if he hadn't be so meticulous about always having escape routes planned from his living quarters, he would have wound up rotting in jail. He also grew tired of taking orders from others and slowly, over the years, began setting up his own syndicate based in England, until now, at sixty-two he felt he was on the verge of making it big. His organization did a little bit of drug trafficking, protection services, prostitution rings. A smaller organization than the more established, older ones, he was still developing, still coalescing his power, still earning respect as a boss, not an underling. He knew he was looked on warily, but had confidence he would show the others he was a man to treat equally. He decided to move his base of operations out of Europe, into a country which hardly knew him. He brought in a handful of close criminal friends, who, like him, could use a place to start anew and reign a little havoc. Gerard was one of those men, sickeningly effete to Culdero's Catholic upbringing, but one of the best phone tappers in the business. It was Gerard's handiwork on the Popolopokis' phone that had enabled him to learn Bill Maxwell had discovered his connection to the recent bombings. Taking him out before he and the FBI could put the whole scenario together was absolutely necessary. Gerard had followed directions perfectly, directing them to a sham condo that Culdero owned but did not live in. Extra apartments were useful, to hide in and to lure others to. No need to actually destroy his own living space, set up under an alias. Gerard had done admirably, his note had drawn them into the apartment, and his bomb had been magnificent. It was a simple plan, perfectly executed.

Only, Maxwell was still alive. Even accounting for the unfathomable placement of vehicles, breaking Maxwell's fall to the ground, how that car how not run him over was unfathomable. And that niggling problem of Ralph's survival made his day doubly bad.

Both of them had to be taken care of.

His plans were too grandiose, to attainable to have them be curtailed now. He would eventually link his American syndicate with those he knew in Europe, to make a world-wide criminal empire, run from the sunny skies of Los Angeles, California, where his chilly blood would enjoy the year long warmth.

Money and supplies were what he most needed. Having made a good income as a bomber, he had also lived luxuriantly; saving money had never been his priority. He couldn't pass up a new suit, a new watch, an expensive female escort, a fabulous bottle of one hundred year old scotch. There were also payroll and supply monies to constantly dole out. His art gallery, condo and home had cost considerable funds, even though his condo was insured under another alias. He didn't dare attempt to claim anything on it, now.

Their little crime wave in California and Phoenix had been helping out with start up costs. Culdero had also decided, after thirty or so years, to call in his AAO ritual promises. It had been easy at first. AAO graduates had kept in touch with him for nearly ten years, sending life updates to him, so many were easy to track down. The Colonel in the Air Force, stationed at Malmstrom, hadn't had $100,000 to give him, so he "helped as specified" by turning bomb materials over to one of Culdero's men. The Colonel had not been able to break his ancient vow--to aid the AAO when required-- although he had committed suicide not long after his treasonous act. Military men understood vows, understood how one's honor depended on remembrance of rites passed, and sworn oaths.

But, the other Americans contacted had not been so amenable. Americans were soft, weak, and made promises which melted, dissolved, over time; they had no sense of history, of dignity, of honor. The four businessmen Culdero had contacted had all refused to give him money, or help him with his illegal actions, and so had been killed. Tit for Tat. Vow breakers deserved no less.

Culdero decided to give up on flawed American businessmen and focus more on thefts than AAO scrolls, as a way to garner the money needed. His sense of pride, his egotism, demanded he also finish the job with Maxwell and Hinkley.

And sooner, much sooner, than later.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

"Ralph, come back to bed," Pam said, standing at the living room entrance in her nightgown, the light from one lamp enabling her to see her husband across the room.

It was 2:00 a.m. and Ralph sat in his pajamas on the sofa, staring at the black alien box on his lap, his suit folded up neatly inside it. He held a half drunken bottle of beer in his hand; an empty lay on the carpet at his feet. He glanced briefly at his wife, and then went back to meditating on the box.

"He's going to be alright," she said. "And it wasn't your fault, anyway."

"Dr. Henderson thinks I'm a jerk," Ralph said, sipping his beer. "You should have seen how mad he was, storming out of the room. But, there was nothing I could say."

Pam came and sat down next to Ralph on the sofa, putting her hand on his arm. "Dr. Henderson doesn't know anything! He doesn't know about Palmdale, about the desert and the green guys, and the suit, and all the good you and Bill are doing! You can't let him get to you, honey."

"Can't I? Maybe Bill should stop working with me. Maybe we've done enough and two other poor slobs can take over."

"The aliens don't think so. You know they're happy with what you're doing."

"The aliens!" he scoffed, waving his beer around. "They didn't holograph the room they were in! They didn't almost kill their best friend! They don't have stitches in them, again, and a cast plastered over a broken bone, again."

It usually wasn't in Pam's nature to argue, although she did wield a wicked wit at times, usually directed, though, at Bill. They sat silently for a moment and then Pam asked, "So, what do you want to do?"

"I don't know. I really don't know."

"You know what Bill wants."

Ralph finished his second beer and put it on the floor, clinking it against the first bottle. "Huh! Yeah. Bill's gonna shrug this all off, saying 'It's nothing; Don't worry,' when I apologize, and stumble out of the hospital with doctors and nurses chasing after him trying to get him to stay." He turned to Pam. "He's pretty predictable."

"Yup," she agreed.

Then, in pensive mood, Ralph added, "Except when he's not."

Pam sat back on the sofa, her shoulder rubbing against Ralph's. "You know, he really is a good guy. A drive you totally crazy kind of good guy."

Ralph teased, "So, he's your best friend, too?".

Pam's eyes widened so much they almost took over her entire face. "No, I wouldn't say that. But, he is a, er, close acquaintance."

Pam Davidson was raised by quiet, conservative parents—who called each other "Mother" and "Father"--in a quiet, conservative town. She grew up going to church on Sunday, playing the piano, being polite and respectful to her elders, and doing her chores without needing to be reminded. Her home life fit her own reserved, controlled personality, where talking was always done in quiet tones, where grand displays of behavior were frowned upon, and blazing extroverts were treated as social pariahs. One conformed and never raised one's voice.

Meeting and having to spend a great deal of time with non-comformist Bill Maxwell—loud, in one's face, sarcastic, demanding—had been difficult for both of them, but more so for Pam. Her main form of communication with him in the first two years had been through insults, which Bill didn't like, but never sent back at her, instead usually complimenting her. There had to be some deeper reasons by now why Pam could still be so reactive to Bill, when she should be used to how he spoke and acted, as he regularly admitted his respect for her beauty, brains, and her skills as a third string utility back-up. Ralph knew she could be as pleased to hear Bill praise her help on a case as he could be, and she was honestly and deeply upset to have heard about his injuries today. Perhaps one day he and his wife would sit down and play lay psychologists and try to pry out the relationship nuances which existed between her and Bill. In the meantime, Ralph figured it was high time for her to admit she did care for Bill, because—no matter how much Bill grated against all she held in reverence regarding her upbringing--they both knew it was true. It was simply as hard for her to admit it as it was for Bill to admit he liked Tony Villacana.

"Come on, Pam," Ralph said, egging her on by pushing on her shoulder. "You know he holds you in the highest esteem. He'd give his life for you, too. Even more important, he ate your curried tofu."

Pam gave Ralph a long suffering look. "Alright, alright. I can't believe I'm saying this. Yes, I consider him a friend. Of sorts. And, he'll have a fit if you say you want to hang it up."

Ralph grinned. "I should say it just to see his face. He's got great facial expressions. Priceless, at times. Have you noticed that?"

"Yup, he does."

"I love that about him."

The sat on the sofa, almost in the dark, as the minutes ticked away, Pam patiently waiting for her husband to return to bed. Finally, Ralph whispered, "It'll kill me, Pam, if he dies, and I was at all responsible."

"Ralph, he feels the same way about you. You told me how he dragged himself along and kept calling out your name, frantic to learn if you were okay. It's a risk both of you take for the good of the country, and you know, without sounding too corny, the good of the world. You're close friends. It's only to be expected."

"But, the risks aren't equal. I've got the protection of the suit, and he doesn't."

"True. But, you've been knocked out twice wearing the suit. And you've saved Bill's life too many times to count. You've got to focus on that, Ralph, not just the occasional times Bill is injured. It's not fair to you."

"Yeah…I guess so."

"Just think where the world would be without you and Bill dealing with all these 'scenarios'."

Images poured into Ralph's mind. Nuclear destruction. Smallpox epidemic. Electricity monster devouring civilization. Mafia criminals running drugs. Spies stealing vital US information. Rural towns decimated by bikers. A child dead from hypothermia. Charities devoid of millions of dollars. The list went on and on. The world would have been much worse without them.

"And who knows what's going to happen in the future? How you'll save the world next?" she added. "As much as I absolutely hate the imposition of the suit into our lives, it's, well, comforting, in a way, knowing you and Bill are working together for the benefit of the planet. You make a heck of a team. The aliens were right about that."

How many times had Bill also mentioned they were a great team? Pam and Bill were right, Ralph thought, this really was bigger than all of them. Mistakes would be made; they were only human. Perhaps Bill had the correct attitude—shrug off the mistakes, the injuries, and just move on. They just had to do their best, stay together, look out for each other, and keep making a difference.

There was simply no turning back.

"You know, you used to just tell me to make my own decision and not try to convince me one way or the other," Ralph mentioned.

"I know. But, I've thought a great deal about all this. I still hate the suit. I wish it had never entered our lives. But, I do realize the necessity of it. If someone has to have one, I simply can't think of a better person for it than you."

They snuggled up, their arms wrapped around each other. Ralph pushed the button on the black box and it slid open, lights shining down on the red suit and the alien emblem in the middle of the tunic.

"I kind of like flying, you know," Ralph said. "It's exhilarating."

"How about landing?" she joked.

Ralph pouted, "No, I still don't like doing that. Comic books make it look easy, but it's not, you know. It's just not."

Pam remembered the jumbled and painful landing she experienced when they arrived on the island where Bill was being held captive. "I know."

"Maybe Bill will help me learn to hover. Then I can fly down to right above the ground, hover, and touch down lightly on my toes. I kind of did it that once, landing in your car, but I haven't been able to be consistent at it. Boy, the suit is hard to figure out."

They both spoke wistfully, "Sure could use that instruction book," and then laughed out loud at the shared comment.

Pam said, "Ask Bill the next time you do a desert practice session to focus on hovering. That has practical applications, too, like looking in upper story windows."

"True. You know, I think I will ask him. Better than setting something else on fire behind me. It drives me bonkers that I can't figure out how to set something on fire in front of me."

Pam kissed him on his lips. "You're a great suit wearer, Ralph. The best."

Ralph moved the black box off his lap and put it on the sofa. "Bed," he said, and they wandered off together.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter Ten

Saturday afternoon, the day after the explosion, Ralph brought a book to the hospital and sat reading while waiting for the long resting Bill to come around. He was pleased to see various cards and flowers brightening up Bill's room, sent by colleagues and the friends Ralph had notified. In the early afternoon, Bill groggily awoke and Ralph watched as he slowly regained his alertness and examined his own body, rediscovering his treated injuries. Ralph put his book down, stood up and the first thing that came out of his mouth was his apology.

"It's nothing, Ralph. Don't worry," Bill said. He lifted his left hand, still hooked up to an IV needle, and lightly rubbed the back of his head. "Sure wish they hadn't had to shave me bald back there."

Predictable, Ralph thought, more concerned about his hairline than his injuries. "But, Bill, I should have reacted sooner—".

"Nah, kid, you did fine. You stopped that car, didn't you? It would have made road pizza outta me. You saved my life. Gotta thank you for that."

The mention of his telekinesis powers enlivened Ralph. "You should have seen me, Bill," Ralph mimicked the motion of putting his hand out in a "stop" position. "I just lifted my hand and yelled 'Stop!' I didn't even think about it. And the car stopped dead. Then I told it to not move again, and it didn't. It was awesome!"

Bill picked up on Ralph's energy. "Maybe that's what we need to focus on. Getting your suit powers to be more reflexive and less, uh…"

"Cognitive? Cerebral?"

"Egghead oriented. By the way, did you ever release the car from, uh, you know, your mental command? Or did they have to tow it away?"

Ralph's mouth opened in surprise. He softly mouthed "Uh-oh", as a nurse came into the room, finishing off with a mumbled "Damn!"

"Did you at least remember to take your clothes out of Culdero's condo, so the police wouldn't find them?" Bill whispered.

"Yeah. Gathering them up and putting them on the roof was what kept me from getting to you sooner," Ralph whispered back.

"How's that hip doing?" the nurse asked Bill, lifting up his gown to pull off the ice bag and cloth which lay between the bag and Bill's underwear. Ralph moved closer to see what his hip looked like. "Ooh, Bill," he said, grimacing. "That has got to hurt."

"Ya think, Dr. Obvious?" Bill answered.

Bill's hip was the darkest purplish blue Ralph had ever seen as a skin color. The contusion was large, spreading up into his lower abdomen, and down his leg a little, as well as around his back. Ralph was also able to see the rolls of gauze wrapped around his upper left thigh, where the long laceration had been stitched.

"Looks like the swelling is started to go down…a little…maybe," the nurse said, trying to be encouraging. "You're lucky there's no fracture."

"Yeah, that's what the ER doc said. When can I get out of this needle bazaar?"

At that description of the hospital the nurse looked at Ralph; he closed his eyes and shook his head back and forth, informing her not to bother commenting.

The nurse turned back to Bill. "When you can walk out."

"Oh, that's easy enough." Bill pushed up off his double pillows with his left hand. As soon as he began elevating his body, though, his eyes nearly bugged out of their sockets, he began panting, sweat broke out on his forehead, and he grit his teeth together so tightly Ralph feared he'd crack them to pieces. "Whoa.." Bill said, not being able to hold back a moan.

"Goodness gracious, lie back down," the nurse said, putting her hands on his chest and gently pushing. "Do you want the hip to swell up more?"

Bill cast a look of anger at her, but the pain was too great, and he was forced to comply.

"Look," the nurse said, pointing her finger at him. "You're not the first law officer I've cared for. You're a bundle of injuries that need time to heal. You can either make this easy or difficult. If you rest, take the anti-inflammatories, and use the ice, you can possibly get out of here in a week. If you keep trying to be some macho man, you'll be in here for three. Now, which is it?"

She was just the kind of woman Bill needed. Just the kind he listened to. Ralph thought it was too bad she looked nearly sixty, and wore a wedding ring.

Bill smiled up at her, reading her name tag. Nina. "No Nonsense Nina, is it? Well, without my gun, I'm in no position to defend myself. Just do one thing. Next time you bring an ice bag, can you put some extra cubes in a glass and fill it with scotch?"

Those quick mood turn-arounds! From ultimate grouch to immaculate charmer. There were so many different levels to Bill Maxwell, Ralph, after three years, knew he still didn't quite wholly comprehend the man. Ralph liked that. It kept things interesting.

"Don't go turning all sweet on me, thinking I'm susceptible to tall, dark, handsome heroes," the nurse mused playfully. "I'm a married woman. And, I've got other patients just as important as you." She gave him two pills and a glass of water. "Now, take your anti-inflammatory and pain medicines. No complaints."

"Ralph, tell her I never complain."

"He always complains," Ralph clarified.

"Traitor."

"Pills," she commanded, hands on hips.

"Yes, ma'am!" Bill said, swallowing both pills down.

The nurse patted his pillow perfunctorily, said "Be good," then exited. Bill waved for Ralph to get closer to him.

"Look, kid, I guess I'm in here for a couple of days, anyway—"

"—Or a week—"

"—So you're going to have to be the eager beaver building up the dam."

Bill spoke to Ralph about his ideas, and they sounded reasonable and sensible. Ralph agreed to get going on them.

"Listen, keep your suit on all the time under your clothes. All the time. I don't trust this Culdero creep. He's good. Stay protected."

"Okay, I will. What about you here in the hospital?"

"I'll be fine. He's a master artist. Seems like when he has a specific individual as a target, he doesn't like to injure others. He can't set off a bomb here without that risk."

Somehow, looking at Bill, lying weakly in bed with over forty stitches in him, his whole right side nearly incapacitated, Bill's assurances brought Ralph little comfort. He had taken Bill's gun back to his apartment, per request by the hospital administration, so he truly was defenseless. Ralph decided to get Bill's fishing hat from his apartment closet to be able to vibe in on his friend now and then, just to be safe.

The whole case was scary and depressing. Ralph thought he'd end things on a positive note.

"Pam sends her regards. She had to finish up some legal briefs this morning, but she says she'll stop in later today."

"Great. Always good to see the beautiful Counselor."

"You know, she called you her friend last night." He left off the "Of sorts", deeming it unnecessary.

Bill was so shocked hearing that his body jumped like he had stuck his finger in an electrical outlet. "What? Did she crash her head crash through a window, too?"

"Nope. Guess she just realized you were less annoying than you seem."

"Oh, is that Funk and Wagnall's definition of a 'friend'? 'A less annoying person than they seem'?"

Ralph grinned. "Maybe not. But, anyway, she meant it."

Bill grew silent for a moment, his changeable face struggling to maintain its equanimity in the midst of being deeply touched by the Counselor's heartfelt admission. Ralph realized his friend's struggle and knew that giving him a moment or two on his own would be the most compassionate thing to do.

"Listen, partner, I gotta go. Pam and I will be back, later, filling you in."

Bill nodded several times, his voice squeaking off a parting, "Thanks, Ralph."

Ralph walked out of Bill's room immensely more satisfied with himself than he had walked into it.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter Eleven

Carlisle came visiting later in the day, bringing with him the Interpol report on the European bomb experts. He quietly entered Bill's private room, and watched the agent before making himself known. Bill was lying in bed with a tray table in front of him, and he was grumbling protests about having to fill in his newspaper crossword puzzle squares writing with his left hand. Bill had a penchant for talking to himself when he was alone, which Carlisle hadn't known, but wasn't wholly surprised to learn. Just another oddity in an odd man.

"Geez," Bill griped, slowly moving the pencil, "no coordination, who'd think an 'a' would be so complicated…"

Carlisle was faced with conflicting emotions which made him frankly uncomfortable. He believed he really didn't like Maxwell, but seeing him there, stoically wounded, looking like some ad for hospital supplies, Carlisle felt a rush of compassion, sympathy, and respect, which was a revelation to him. When he stopped and encompassed all of Maxwell's personality, it irritated him to acknowledge that he wasn't really that a bad guy. He was dedicated and devoted, hard-working, successful in his cases, experienced and knowledgeable, friendly, and he had—Carlisle hated to admit it—an admirable sense of humor. If Maxwell wasn't so remarkably unorthodox, and if he cut his sideburns, and buttoned his top shirt button and wore his tie tightly, and wasn't so mysterious, and wasn't always hiding something, and a wise-ass, Carlisle wouldn't have such a big problem with him. His wife had asked Carlisle if perhaps he was jealous of Bill's 98 kill rate, never having himself attained such a percentage, but that was so patently outlandish, Carlisle hadn't even deigned to answer.

However, the fact was that whatever Carlisle felt about Bill--his successes, and his sideburns--Carlisle had been truly concerned to learn he had almost been killed. He was one of Carlisle's agents. He was Carlisle's responsibility. Carlisle took that very seriously.

"Hello, Bill," he asked.

Bill, wearing his little granny reading glasses, looked over at Carlisle. He took his glasses off, and scratched the top of his head. "Hello, Carlisle. Miss me already?"

"Hardly. How are you doing?"

Bill waved his left arm at his injuries. "Oh, this is nothing. A few scrapes and bruises."

Carlisle had learned of the seriousness of Bill's injuries through contacting his physician. He figured Maxwell would describe having a severed limb as "a nasty paper cut".

Carlisle did not like hospitals and did not like his agents being in them. He got down to business to expedite his departure. "Bill, Interpol confirmed your…hunch…that Culdero was a leading bomb expert in Europe." Carlisle knew it wasn't a hunch, that Bill could not have pieced together the case as far as he had on his own, but once again, Bill's secret machinations seemed to be working. "He was active for nearly twenty years. They also believe he planted bombs in South America, Indonesia and so forth."

"Well, he's now in L.A., and I think he's got bigger plans than simply killing a few businessmen."

"That may be. And, since you're going to be out for at least a week, I've decided to turn the case over to Simpson and Mathews as this has some real urgency to it."

Bill grew frantic. "No! You can't do that, boss! I've got my informers out, gathering information. I'm still on top of things. Give me another day to prove it to you, before you take me off the case. At least till Monday. Come on. You owe me that. A couple more days."

Carlisle cringed inside, realizing Bill was right about his having the justification to continue the case if he could. Fair was fair. Carlisle couldn't deny it but he could still be suspicious.

"What informers?" he asked.

Maxwell shrugged. "Every good agent has some, uh, outside the agency help."

"I never did," Carlisle said, snobby in his air of superiority and authority.

Bill changed tactics to become an obedient brown noser, an act he no doubt figured Carlisle saw through, but that had, anyway, at times, worked. "That was because you were such a high flyer on your own. Didn't need to rely on snitches."

No luck this time.

"Can it, Bill. I haven't taken my anti-nausea pills today. Is Ralph the civilian going to help? I heard you called for him after the bombing. Was he in the apartment with you?"

"Ralph? Ralph who?" Bill blinked.

Carlisle felt his blood pressure spouting upwards like Old Faithful. "Ralph Hinkley. Your best friend."

"Oh, that Ralph. No, he wasn't there. I'm sure the police report confirmed no one else was in the apartment."

Carlisle noticed the smarmy smile, but it was true. No one else had been found in the apartment. "But, you called out his name several times."

Bill tapped the back of his head. "Got my noggin sliced, diced and pureed, Carlisle. It's all a blur. I don't remember calling out for anyone." He looked at his boss with his head tilted and the most innocent brown Bambi eyes.

He was lying. Carlisle would have bet his watch on it. But, he couldn't prove it. He could never prove anything against Bill.

"You've got till Monday, Bill. Monday morning. And your information better be good. I mean, very good. Terrific. The best. Oscar winning. Or, you're off the case."

Then came the supreme confidence, the tour de force of Maxwell The Enigma. "No problem, Carlisle. You'll have it." He picked up his puzzle again and asked, "Say, you don't happen to know a five letter word for 'speaks pompously', do you?"

"Don't push it, Billy." Carlisle left, slightly fuming, liking conversations with Maxwell much better when he was the clear winner. Maxwell, on the other hand, pleased Carlisle had visited him on a Saturday, pleased with the Interpol report, pleased he had another day, pleased that his secrets were driving Carlisle crazy, and pleased that Ralph was happy to help, couldn't have been more satisfied with their interaction.

"Orate," he left-handedly chicken scratched into the squares.


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter Twelve

Ralph and Pam drove up to the Fantago art gallery in Ralph's station wagon. Although the hours listed on the door indicated it should be open noon on Saturdays, the door was locked, the place deserted. Ralph undid his shirt buttons a little, letting the top of the suit show. They stood by the front door and, after looking up and down the street, and allowing a person to walk by, Ralph aimed his finger at the door in full concentration and they were rewarded with hearing the door unlock.

"That's nifty, Ralph," Pam said. "I should use you more trying to open the pickle jars."

"I'd probably crush them," Ralph said, as he opened up the door and they went inside. He put his hand out, keeping Pam from moving forward as he opened himself up to feel any sort of dangerous vibe. It didn't always happen that it just picked up random feelings, but he prayed that if another bomb was hidden in the art gallery, he'd be able to vibe it out.

He felt nothing of the sort even with his clothes off, and folded in a neat bundle on the floor.

"Okay, honey, let's walk around a little. Bill wants me to try to holograph in and see if we can track down Gerard or Culdero."

They wandered around, Pam seeing the risqué art for the first time. Ralph found himself drawn back to the bronze sculpture he and Bill had studied before. Pam walked up next to him. Her eyebrows climbed onto her forehead as she noticed the position of the man and woman.

"Is that possible?" she asked.

"Bill and I wondered that, too. Maybe if the couple is very limber. I suppose you and I could try it out…in a hotel…near a hospital…"

"I think I'd either wind up paralyzed or dead."

"That's what Bill and I thought." Pam felt herself intensely blushing as she stared at Ralph quizzically. Ralph noticed his gaff and grew flustered. "I mean, we didn't mention you specifically, just the, er, act, er, the position, seemed dangerous…for the woman…oh, forget it."

Suddenly, he had an idea, and crossed the gallery to the man/man statue, the one Gerard had pointed to. Pam tailed along beside him, a little wary of what he and Bill talked about when she wasn't there.

"Maybe this one might be good to vibe," he thought, picking up the bronze as Pam's brows knit together in consternation. "Gerard was…er…interested in it."

"They'd have to be boneless to do that," she mumbled.

Ralph turned to focus on the bare white wall of the room, as a holograph popped into view. The round shimmering circle enclosed a picture of Gerard, hurriedly packing a suitcase, a plane ticket lying on his bed. The vision pulled back to show the room number of his apartment, and then the name of the apartment building and the address. The image then faded.

"Pam, Gerard is leaving the country in a couple of hours. I've got to get to him now," he said, excitedly. "You take my clothes and go back home. I'll meet you there as soon as possible."

"Oh, Ralph, be careful," she said, scooping up his clothes.

"I will," he assured her with a quick peck on the lips.

He ran out the back of the gallery into the alley, took three steps then jumped and launched himself skywards. Luckily, he knew the area of town where Gerard's apartment was, and adjusting for shifts in the wind, a couple which made him cry out and flap his arms for balance, he arrived there twenty minutes later, by crashing into the side of the building right by Gerard's bedroom. Landing in a large creosote bush, he got his limbs twisted around some stout branches, and it took a minute for him to dissever his arms and legs from the bush, pull the leaves out of his hair, and get his orientation. Hopping up sixteen feet he popped over the balcony railing and approached the sliding door leading into the bedroom. The door was locked, so he pulled a little harder on it, and the door broke free of its locking mechanism and Ralph's grip. It slid forcefully open, crashing into the other side of the doorway, cracking the glass and metal frame to pieces.

"Damn," Ralph cursed softly, as he entered and faced an amazed Gerard. He was glad Bill wasn't there to criticize another destruction of a door.

"How did you—?" Gerard began.

Ralph walked up to him, lifted him by his suit lapels, ignoring his protestations, until his feet were off the floor and carried him further into the apartment, where there could be some privacy. "Remember me? You and I are going to do some talking, Gerard."

He plopped Gerard down on a chair in the living room and stood over him, glowering with anger. Bill was nearly killed because of this man sending them to Culdero's condo.

"What's going on? Where's Culdero?" Ralph asked.

"How did you do that?" Gerard asked, pointing back to the bedroom. "How did you carry me? You're so deliciously scrawny."

Ralph was definitely glad Bill wasn't there. "I'm not scrawny. And, I'm not the subject of this conversation. You are." He thrust his finger into Gerard's chest, perhaps a little too hard; Gerard shot backwards, bouncing off the back of his chair, grimacing as he rubbed where Ralph had touched him. "Ow!" he complained.

Ralph got a grip on himself, taking a few deep breaths. No one could deny that anger was a familiar expression of his; it seethed just under the surface of his otherwise reasonable personality. Bill, for all his gun-waving, bullet-shooting tendencies, followed the letter of the law when it came to interacting with criminals, and was always against any type of violence directed against perpetrators without due, defensive cause. Ralph remembered Bill's disapproving face when Ralph had mentioned he wanted just a minute all suited up in an alley with Bigsby the IRS accountant, and he also recalled Bill's censure when he found Ralph being a little too rough with Phillip Kaballa.

Perhaps if Gerard didn't talk willingly, he'd fly him around and fake dropping him. That always worked. But he committed himself to no more physical attacks.

"Talk," he said, leaning over Gerard. "Where's Culdero?"

"I don't know. I tap phones and rooms, forge papers. I don't like working for Culdero, anymore. Killing so many people, and asking me to help! I want to return to France."

"You almost killed my friend and me."

"I know. I'm sorry. Culdero is not, how do you say, 'right in the head.' He is obsessed. Talks about broken vows and promises, how Americans are despicable, his old Fraternity brothers sadly unreliable. He threatened me if I did not direct you two to the condo."

"Where is he now?"

"I don't know. He set up the art gallery for us to use a front, and put me in charge of it. I knew about his condo hideaway, but I don't know where he lives. He is very guarded. Very cunning. It is how he has survived so long with all of Europe searching for him."

Ralph reached the end of his questions. He was back to wishing Bill was with him, as Bill had experience questioning suspects, and knew which tactics to take to uncover hidden data. However, Gerard did seem to be spilling all the beans he was aware of. Was there anything else to ask? Ralph didn't know.

"Sit. Stay," he warned Gerard, as he crossed the room to the phone and called Bill's hospital room. When it kept ringing unanswered, Ralph figured Bill's morphine dose may have knocked out his more injured than he'd admit friend.

Strangely, Ralph got a vibe through the phone. Narrowing his eyes, he saw the familiar circle of vision come into view. There was something on the bottom of Bill's phone, something someone had placed there…Ralph recalled finding those devices in the hated O'Neil's apartment—listening devices. Someone had planted a bug in Bill's hospital room!

Ralph hung up the phone, tapping his finger on the little table, slowly getting his mind to come up with a new line of questions for Gerard. Behind him, the front door to the apartment opened just an inch, unbeknownst to either Gerard or Ralph. A grenade was flung in and the door closed as the weapon hopped twice on the carpeted floor before coming to rest at Gerard's feet. Gerard had heard the soft bouncing sounds and turned to see the grenade on the floor. He screamed out "NO!", terrifying Ralph who turned in time to get the blast full in his chest. The force knocked him over a sofa, and into a bookcase, from which he fell to the floor but the suit fully protected him. Standing up he saw the bloody disintegration of Gerard's dead body, and covering his retching mouth, he closed his eyes and turned away. It was horrible.

Is that what Bill had seen for years in Korea? Ralph doubted he could have handled such graphically violent scenes of human destruction. He couldn't get near Gerard to try to holograph off of him and learn who did this, and where he was. He just couldn't.

With voices in the hallway pounding on the door of the apartment, Ralph regrouped and pulled his mind together. Clasping his hands tightly into fists, he turned invisible and flew out the broken sliding door.

He had learned nothing really valuable and Gerard was dead.

The point went to the bomb maniac, not the guy with the magic jammies.


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter Thirteen

Culdero threw his disguise into one of the trash cans in the apartment complex's large parking lot, so that he looked nothing like the fellow who had wandered to Gerard's door, picked the lock, and thrown a grenade in.

Gerard was weak. Culdero knew he was panicking, and was attempting flight. He had to be eliminated.

The fact that only one person had seen Culdero during his brief minutes in the complex assured him that although it would be considered his work, there was no proof he had killed Gerard. He had thought he'd have to sneak into the apartment, but once the door was opened, seeing Gerard in his chair looking to his side—at whom, Culdero did not know—made things much easier. A simple, well aimed toss, and the job was done. If someone else was maimed or killed, at this point, Culdero didn't care. Things were beginning to spiral a little out of control, and protecting himself, no matter who suffered as a result, was his foremost priority.

Culdero now had other plans to make. Gerard had tapped the room in Agent Maxwell's hospital room. How easy it was to penetrate a hospital. He dressed as an orderly, asked at the front desk which room Mr. Maxwell was in, and in a minute had tapped the room.

By doing that, Culdero had learned the name of Bill's friend—Ralph Hinkley. Maxwell's superior had conveniently mentioned it. Ralph and Pam Hinkley were openly listed in the phone book—Culdero now knew their address. He knew where Bill Maxwell lay, incapacitated.

He had heard rumors from contacts in Europe—those in charge of other syndicates were hearing of his actions here, and were considering him to be…a dolt. Too many bombs in a country not used to them. Too aggressive a plan to start up a full criminal empire. They did not have confidence in his ability to be successful.

This hurt Culdero as much as if someone sliced off a thumb.

He would prove them wrong. Thinking about it rationally, he realized he had been too active in Southern California. His disdain of vow-breaking Americans was too overt; he should have let those lowlifes live, as much as he saw them as worms to be crushed.

He would finish up his business here by killing the Agent and his partner; he could never allow previous targets to live. That pride of his simply could not allow it. After, he would move to New York City, where he would work more subtly, and prove his competence to all.

He still had five criminal allies, with Gerard being gone. For money, they would continue their loyalty to him. And he paid out very good money to one of them to also dress like a hospital orderly.


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter Fourteen

Pam Hinkley stopped in to visit Bill at the hospital after leaving the art gallery. He was sleeping when she arrived and she was grateful for that. She could not initially hide how aghast she was at how Bill looked, especially when Nina the nurse came in to put another ice pack on his right hip and she got a glimpse of the sheer hideousness and size of that bruise.

Pam sat down, committed to stay for an hour or two. Bill deserved it.

He was the most unusual man Pam had ever known in her life, including some eccentric law professors and a few of the various and sundry men she had dated before meeting Ralph. He contained the entire bell curve of personality traits; he was black/white, up/down, inside/outside all in the same tall, muscular, handsome, square jawed body.

Pam believed that no one on Earth was more a mass of contradictions than William Maxwell.

He was neurotic at times about his health; he was calm as could be in a gun fight. He was full of stereotypes about people; he let them go easily and was by no means a racist or bigot. He openly despised all the mushy stuff of life; he was notably mushy himself when it came to horses, dogs, children, friendship, women. He was pushy and obnoxious; he was caring and humorous. He was abrasive and rude; he was reasonable and patient. He was attacked mercilessly by Carlisle; yet, Pam was sure he liked his boss, and would, anyway, put his life on the line for him. His modus operandi was to wave his badge aggressively in someone's face; he was shy and courteous with women. He could abuse his friends; he was undeniably eternally loyal to them—if they didn't break the law--and placed immense value on their friendship. He would try to use the suit for tiny acts of personal gain—winning a little money, getting out of a police ticket; he was truly committed to being a "good guy", an honest, incorruptible Fed. He love the thrill and action of his job; he loved being quiet in the beauty of nature, doing nothing more than fishing or digging for gold with a friend. He derided modern ideas such as feminism; he highly respected Pam, her brains and her career. He would complain for ten minutes about ketchup touching his food; he would stoically wrap his broken hand in a towel and continue on with a case. He was staunchly right-wing Republican, anti-Russian, anti-communism, pro-USA, pro-FBI; like a hippie, he preferred walking around as unclothed as possible. He hated tomatoes; he snacked on dog biscuits. He was brave and courageous; he was openly terrified of the very aliens who had so positively impacted his life. He acted tough and inflexible; he was a really a very decent man who enjoyed helping others out.

The list could go on and on.

Pam sometimes thought Bill was as alien to Earth as the green guys were. She had never met anyone who was anything like him. He would fascinate her, irritate her, drive her crazy, make her laugh, surprise her, and save her life, all in the same afternoon. Being with Bill sometimes was like being on a drug trip, she imagined, or watching some bizarre Eraserhead type movie where nothing at all was comprehensible, but it was a relatively enjoyable experience nonetheless, and gave one various ideas to ponder.

And the best aspect about it all was that Bill Maxwell considered himself to be normal and Pam to oftentimes be the strange one! God, she loved that!

If she believed the aliens knew what they were doing when they chose Ralph to wear the suit, she had to believe they knew what they were doing when they chose Bill as his partner. She hadn't been lying to Ralph—she did actually believe Ralph and Bill made a great team.

She thought of the play "Fiddler On The Roof", the song where, after being together twenty-five years, Tevye and Golde finally admit they love each other. Pam sighed. After nearly living together with Bill Maxwell for three years, Pam supposed it was high time she admitted to liking the man.

She sat in her chair silently sending out a prayer for Bill's rapid recovery, eager for him to awake, so she could give him some sympathy, glad tidings and, more importantly, some playful grief.

No use changing the rules to what had turned out to be a uniquely peculiar, but successful, relationship.


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter Fifteen

Ralph flew back to Culdero's condo, landing his invisible head against the metal sliding gate which was the entry into the ground floor parking lot for the residents of the building. The gate seemed to shake on its own as Ralph emitted a notable "OOOF!" and flopped down onto the driveway. Coincidentally, the woman who had mentioned that Bill was leaning on his "guardian angel Ralph" was walking right passed the gate at that moment.

Stopping and leaning in to the nothingness she heard but didn't see, she asked, meekly, "Ralph?"

Ralph, caught by surprise, stood up holding his invisible head and said, "What?"

At that, the woman fell to her knees on the sidewalk, dropping her purse and putting her hands in front of her in prayer. "Bless me, angel," she implored.

"Uh-oh," Ralph mumbled, beginning to tiptoe away from her. Then he stopped, watching her deep in contemplation in public on the sidewalk. A couple of people looked at her as if she was a lunatic as they walked by her snickering. Ralph felt unaccountably responsible for her acting like a harebrained, foolish woman.

Ralph found himself raising his right arm in a solemn stance when he and the woman were alone again. "Uh, you're blessed…uh…my child…" Ralph said, hoping that sounded reasonable and not too over the top. Immediately uncomfortable with his charade, he added a curt, "Gotta go."

He leapt up to the open window hole in the condo and entered into the devastated apartment. He glanced back down to the woman who burst into tears of joy exclaiming, "Thank you! Thank you!". She picked up her purse, and strode away quickly, repeating her heartfelt "Thank you!"s.

For the first time in three years, Ralph Hinkley didn't know if he had abused his suit powers or used them correctly.

He'd let the green guys decide.

He turned into the room and became visible again. Lifting his feet high over the debris littering the floor, he walked around the apartment, trying to find something to vibe and get a link to Culdero. Bad memories flooded his thoughts and he had to concentrate to keep images of Bill lying helplessly in the street out of his mind.

Ralph felt a vibe and looked down seeing some of the bomb mechanism lying by his feet. He picked it up, stared at the remnant of a wall, and saw numerous boxes of detonation materials stacked up in a warehouse, "US Air Force" stamped on them. It was then the whole scene switched to Bill's hospital room. A man dressed as an orderly had entered Bill's room, while Bill slept in his bed, and Pam dozed in a chair. He attached something square under the frame of Bill's bed—Oh my God! He was attaching a bomb to Bill's hospital bed! And Pam was in the room as well!

It was hard to take three steps in the condo, because the floor was so uneven. Ralph danced over the rubble as best he could and then leapt up through the window, but he hadn't gotten good momentum and so instead of launching airborne, he fell hard to the sidewalk two floors below. It stung smacking his hip against the hard ground in the suit; it must have really pained Bill.

"Jesus! Are you okay, fellow?" asked a man who had been walking his dog near where Ralph landed.

"Oh, yeah, I do this all the time," Ralph assured him and then stood, ran, leapt and flew off before the confused man had time to realize what he had just seen.

Ralph flew back to the hospital, landing ungallantly on his stomach on the roof. He pulled open the locked metal door leading to the stairs, ripping it off its hinges, and putting it down on the roof.

Closing his eyes and tensing his body, he turned invisible again, and then began zipping down the stairs at super speed, much quicker than the elevator could descend. At the sixth floor he opened the door and step out into the corridor, slowing his pace enough he had control and wouldn't slam into any person or cart, but quick enough to whiz down the hall and get to Bill's room.

He got there just as visiting hours were ending. Bill was awake and was conversing with Pam, who stood by his bed. Ralph made himself visible next to Pam which caused both her and Bill to startle.

"Ralph! Why can't you just come in with flowers like everyone else?" Bill protested.

"Pam, move back," Ralph said, pushing her away hard enough she stumbled back against the wall and had to catch herself from falling.

"Ralph!" she grumbled.

"Sorry! But there's a bomb in the room!" Ralph said, in explanation. "Under Bill's bed!"

"What?" Bill asked. "Under the bed? How did it get there?"

"Culdero had one of his criminals plant it there while you and Pam were sleeping."

"Ralph, get rid of it!" Pam said, terrified.

Ralph bend down and saw the bomb mechanism attached by tape to the bed frame. Grabbing hold of it, he ripped apart the tape and pulled the mechanism off, clutching it to his chest and covering it with his cape, to contain any explosion. Ralph's vibe of the bomb told him it was minutes from detonating.

"Get out of here, Kid! Get up on the roof and fly off with it!" Bill said.

That was exactly the idea Ralph had in mind. Without another word he turned invisible again, ran out of the room, back up the corridor, to the staircase, up to the roof where he flew off into the darkening sky. At five thousand feet he through the bomb up even higher, seeing no helicopters or planes near him. The bomb exploded and even though Ralph was prepared for it, the shock blast was strong enough to make him visible and throw off his flight control. He still had not mastered how to recover from a total disorienting nosedive and so he descended emitting muffled screams of fear in an ungainly, awkward and noisy manner, eventually landing on a Mercedes Benz in the hospital parking lot, crushing the roof entirely.

He slid off the car, and crouched low, recovering his wits. "Sorry," he said to no one, hoping the doctor who owned the car had good insurance. But, he really wasn't that repentant. He had saved the life of his wife and best friend. If a car was totaled as a result, Ralph justifiably felt little remorse.

The scored was now tied one to one, bomber to magic jammies guy.


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter Sixteen

Culdero seethed with anger in his home. His bombs go off. They always go off. His underling assured him the bomb had been planted, but there had been no explosion. He had waited outside his condo, and Bill was wounded but Ralph unharmed. He had waited on the ground below Bill's hospital room, no explosion had occurred. There had been a crashing noise in the parking lot, and Culdero, being close by, believed he seen Ralph Hinkley scurrying away safely. Had the bomb been moved to the lot, destroyed a car, and yet Hinkley had again survived somehow? Was he bomb-proof? And, making things worse, Bill Maxwell was still alive.

Culdero kicked a box of plastic explosives in his outrage. He wouldn't have another chance at Maxwell in the hospital; he was sure of it. But, things had to be settled soon. Hinkley had to be killed. Maxwell had to be killed.

Culdero had a brilliant idea. If he couldn't get to Maxwell, then he had to ensure Maxwell came to him. It was all so simple it was nearly laughable.

Culdero sneered. This would all end tomorrow.

Ralph radio'd Bill from the parking lot, using his communicator. Bill's communicator was in a pocket of his beige trousers Ralph had brought from Bill's closet, folded neatly on a chair in the hospital room with a his black t-shirt, red and white short sleeve shirt, socks and underwear.

"Bill, Pam, are you there?" he asked. He didn't feel like slinking back into the hospital all invisible. He was a little tired after his busy and harrowing afternoon and sat down on a parking lot divider in a space that was empty of a car.

"Ralph!" they both answered, "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. The bomb went off up in the air. Although some Mercedes owner isn't going to be too happy. I landed on his car, crushing the roof."

"A Mercedes? Boy, we have got to work on those landings," Bill said.

"Bill, do you mind? Ralph, what was all this about?" Pam asked.

Ralph explained to them his afternoon activities. Ralph mentioned there being a bug planted under Bill's phone and, lifting up the unit, Pam and Bill found it. They removed it; Pam stomped on it with her shoe, and then threw it out. Ralph then mentioned Gerard and the grenade and soberly told Bill he had a new appreciation for his war years.

"Sorry you had to see that, Ralph," Bill sincerely commiserated. "It's very gruesome."

"Yeah, horrible. All the blood, the disfigurement…"

None of them commented for a few seconds.

"That'll probably make the papers tomorrow," Bill said. "Carlisle won't like it. I still can't believe he'd put a bomb in a hospital. He must be romper room on us."

"No doubt," Ralph agreed. "Listen, I'm exhausted, emotionally and physically. Bill, since visiting hours are almost over, Pam and I'll go home and I'll continue working on the case tomorrow. Is that okay? Let me know what other angles you think I should pursue."

"Well…alright, I'll do my best to think something up. Carlisle'll take me off the case if I don't have something substantial by Monday. We've got to stop this guy."

"Just tell me what to do. I'm clueless on my own."

It seemed too complicated to make a formal police and FBI report about finding a bomb under Bill's bed. There was little proof, and how they would explain it not going off was hard to figure out. Their minds were not at their best for a masterpiece of prevarication, so they just decided to not report it at all.

"Honey, I'm coming down," Pam said.

It was an anxious night for all of them. Ralph was uncomfortable sleeping in his suit, but did so on Bill's recommendation, to protect himself and Pam. He held Bill's fishing hat in his hand to vibe in on any danger that might return to Bill in his hospital room. He dozed now and then, dreaming of bombs and blood. Pam was a little traumatized to think she had almost been blown up herself, and latched onto her husband for comfort and safety all night long. Bill, once alone in his room, abandoned his heralded stoicism and asked the night nurse for more morphine. But enough time had not allotted to allow him another dose, and so he lay restlessly, in pain and fear for his life, through a very long and worrisome night.


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter Seventeen

Coincidences can be the bounty or bane of life.

It was a coincidence when Ralph went to Pam Davidson, lawyer, to help him with his divorce from his first wife, Alicia. That they wound up falling in love and getting married had been the best thing that ever happened to him.

It was a bad coincidence, however, when Ralph woke up groggily and decided he stank enough from his previous days exertions he had to remove the suit and take a shower, just when Culdero's men pulled up to the Hinkley's home in a brown van, armed with guns and lock pick expertise. His wife lay lazily in bed beside him.

"I'm going to hop in the shower for a moment," he said, yawning and rubbing his eyes.

"Please do," she replied, stretching out her long, thin limbs only to compact them into a sleeping ball again.

"Thanks a lot!"

"Ralph, the suit may be self-cleaning, but unfortunately, you're not."

He "harrumphed" and got out of bed. Undressing, he sloppily dropped the tunic, tights, belt, cape and boots on the floor and chair. Hopping in the shower, he let the hot water soothe him as he washed off the dirt and sweat from the day before. Getting out he dried himself off, covered himself with a bathrobe and went back into his bedroom.

He stood there, his mouth opening in fear, too paralyzed to move.

Four men were in his bedroom, two of them holding onto his wife, holding guns to her head. Her eyes shone out pure, unadulterated terror.

"Don't hurt her!" Ralph called out, cursing himself for choosing cleanliness over cautiousness. Bill had strictly told him to not take off the suit. He had blew it.

There was nothing to do with is suit on the floor, and loaded guns aimed at him and his wife. Bill was not going to barge in saving the day. They followed the directions of the men, dressing, and then walked to the van out front as if nothing was wrong.

In the van, they were handily tied and gagged as it drove off. Ralph's heart sank and for the first time in his life since he had been given the suit, each breath he inhaled seemed to contain molecules of despair, which dispersed chaotically throughout his body.

He should have listened to Bill.

Bill had been finally given another dose of morphine around midnight, and so he had been able to sleep until noon. Waking, he was surprised neither Ralph nor Pam was in his room, and that there were no messages on his phone.

He got a very bad feeling, and what was worse, his bad feelings were almost always—if not 100 always—right.

Bill called the Hinkley residence and got their message machine. He told them to call him as soon as possible. He tried the communicator, but Ralph didn't pick it up.

Damn, he thought, damn! Ralph had taken off the jammies. That had to be it. He had taken them off although Bill had stridently, no if-ands-or-butts, told him not to. Something was the matter. Something had gone wrong.

Bill thought it through. Culdero would want him, too. He had to contact Bill or try to plant another bomb or something. He had to play it out. Bill just had to be patient, and wait until he was contacted, or until he caught someone entering his room who didn't belong there.

In the meantime, there was no reason to think Ralph and Pam were…dead. No reason at all. Of course they were alive. Of course they were fine. Bill squeezed his eyes together, closing off any images that did not contain ones of Ralph and Pam barbecuing, or watching wild horses, or dressed up ready for their wedding.

There was no one to contact; no one could help. Bringing in a ton of cops might be enough to launch Culdero's borderline mind into outer space. He didn't dare risk Ralph and Pam's life by doing that.

He just had to be patient. Half an agent's life was being patient—stake-outs, drudge work, interrogation of suspects. All required immense patience. Bill could be a patient man. No problemo. Piece of cake.

Bill began being patient by bringing his left fist down hard on the metal frame edge of his hospital bed while a fervent "DAMN!" echoed throughout the empty room.


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter Eighteen

All was not well in hospital room 623. Bill picked at his food, and refused his afternoon dose of morphine. He sat like a stone as the nurse did what nurses do, attaching a new bag of antibiotics, giving him anti-inflammatories—which he would swallow—and coming and going with ice packs.

He answered the phone before the first ring had ended, and hung up politely yet quickly on well-wishers such as Paula, Rose, Harlan and Ira, and others who called to see how he was doing. He didn't want to raise any suspicions among his friends.

It was four o'clock when he got the phone call he wanted. Picking up the phone, peremptorily saying "Maxwell", he heard a voice with a clear Spanish accent.

"Agent Maxwell," it said. It sounded slimy to Bill, like ooze on a polluted lake.

Be cool. Stay cool. Deal from strength. Don't show fear. Pressure makes diamonds. He believed in those axioms. They worked.

"That's me. Who's this?" he asked, trying in inflect as much boredom into his voice as he could.

"I am Culdero. I have as guests your friends, Ralph and Pam Hinkley."

His heart leapt in his chest. They were still alive. "Really? Tell 'em I expected 'em with the bagels and cream cheese for brunch."

"They could not come. They were…enjoying my hospitality. We would like you to join our party."

"I don't know. It's pretty short notice. I've got a Rotary Club speech to give tonight on 'The Benefits of Hollow Point Bullets'. How about tomorrow?"

There was a pause on the line. He had thrown Culdero for a loop by his insouciance. He expected a harsh comeback, but nonetheless, for the moment, Culdero was a bit off balance. That gave Bill the encouragement to continue pushing his buttons.

"If you do not show up by 6:00 p.m. at my residence, the Hinkleys will be killed."

"6:00? Hmm, I don't give the speech till 8:00….Let me hear Ralph speak and I think I can make it."

The phone went dead for a couple of seconds, and then Maxwell breathed a sigh of relief to hear his friend's voice. "Bill, I'm sorry. I took the suit off to shower—".

"Don't worry, Kid. Just keep calm and level-headed."

"He's got the whole place rigged with bombs—".

Culdero came back on line. "That's enough. You'll be here by 6:00 p.m." He gave Maxwell directions and since Bill had memorized pretty much the geography of the whole Los Angeles basin, plus surrounding areas, he knew exactly where the location was. Culdero's ominous warning that if anyone but Bill, or with Bill, showed up, he would immediately kill the Hinkleys was what Bill expected to hear, but was a serious caveat nonetheless.

Maxwell decided to play a card he'd thought up during the long hours he had waited for the call. "It irks you, doesn't it, Clodero, how Ralph survived the condo explosion unscathed, and how he removed the bomb from my hospital room and was uninjured when it went off." Maxwell laughed. "It wouldn't be very good if people were bomb-proof, were they? You'd be out of a job."

"What are you talking about?"

The tide had changed; now Culdero wasn't ordering Maxwell around, but was asking him for information.

"Keep your wires off my friends, and I think we might be able to do some business. I'll see you at 6:00," he said.

"What do you mean, bomb-proof—?"

Maxwell hung up the phone. Bingo. Deal from strength. He wiped his sweaty palm on his hospital gown and waited a minute for his heart to slow down.

Now, he just had to figure out how to get out of this place.

A young nurse came in with a tray of food, a little snack since Bill had skipped lunch, his stomach too taut with worry to welcome a meal. She saw him snap down the side bar on his bed with his left hand.

"What are you doing? You should keep that up. It's safer."

"Get my clothes from the chair and bring them to me," Bill said.

The nurse looked at his clothes and then back at Bill. "But, why?"

"I'm leaving."

"You can't leave. The doctor hasn't allowed it yet."

"Have him sue me for patient malpractice." Bill inched over a little to the edge of the bed, his hip screaming out for him to not move. This was going to be difficult, very difficult. But, he was damn well going to do it anyway.

"Get me a wheelchair and some crutches. Big enough for my size."

"But—"

Bill removed the IV line from his left hand and let it drop to the floor. The nurse's eyes widened and she stammered, "Oh, you can't do that, you can't—"

Bill had no time for this. Inching over a little more, ignoring the pain-induced perspiration wetting his face he ordered, "Get me my clothes, a wheelchair and crutches. Now!"

The nurse skittishly dashed out of the room, like a kitten being spooked by a nearby vacuum cleaner.

Bill stared at his clothes and tried to move them closer with his mind, but "white paper" got him nowhere. If he could swing his left foot off the bed onto the floor, and then pull his right leg off, perhaps he could stumble to the chair before he passed out from the pain, and 6:00 came and went, and Ralph and Pam died. It was worth a try.

Nurse Amy ran out into the hallway to the main nurses station, meeting up with Nina, who was there on her day off to pick up her wallet. She had taken her wallet out of her purse yesterday to chip in for a doctor's birthday cake, and had forgotten to put it back in her purse, leaving it at the hospital.

"Mr. Maxwell is trying to leave!" she cried out to Nina.

"He's trying to what? To leave? But, he's not ready for that," the older nurse replied.

"He's taken his IV line out, and demands a wheelchair and crutches."

"Oh, for crying out loud," Nina said. "Don't worry, Amy, I'll go speak to him. You just stay here."

Nina frowned and moved down the corridor to Bill's room. Opening the door she couldn't believe what she was seeing. It was just as Amy reported.

"What do you think you're doing?" Nina asked, hands akimbo as she came up to the bed. Stopping Bill's progress to the edge, she pulled up the side frame and clicked it back into place.

"Don't do that! Go get my clothes."

"Absolutely not. Your doctor has not signed any orders for you to leave. Your hip is still too swollen to move. You're not going anyway, if I have to tie you down."

"Listen, Nina, my friends are in trouble, serious trouble, and I've got to get to them. It's the only way to save their lives. Now, either help me or get out of the way."

Nina saw the panic in Bill's face and realized that for this man to exhibit fear something drastic had to be happening. "What exactly is going on?"

Bill realized the only chance he had with this nurse was to tell the truth to the limit he could. "The bomber who injured me has kidnapped my friends, and will blow them up if I don't appear at his residence in two hours."

"That sounds like a Saturday morning cowboy show."

"I know. But, it's true. Now, I've got a way to stop him, but I've got to get there, first."

"Let's just call the police, or your FBI—"

"—No! Anyone but me appearing, and my friends are toast. And the creep's location enables him to keep track of all arrivals."

"But—"

"No buts! Get me my clothes and help me dress."

"I can't help you leave. Without a doctor's order, I'd lose my job and my nursing license."

"You have to help me. If you don't, two good people will die and a madman will escape to blow up more people."

Nina thought long and hard as Maxwell's gaze never wavered from her face. What did ordinary people do when put into extraordinary situations? How did they act when led to the self-sacrificing altar of altruism? Which individuals became heroes, which goats? What type of person was she, at her inner core, admirable or faint-hearted? These were questions she had never before posed to herself; had they telepathically come from this wounded FBI agent, ready to place himself in utmost danger to save his friends? His resolve radiated from his face—his eyes were narrowed and focused, his lips puckered in determination. She believed Bill Maxwell would stare down the Devil. She found herself realizing this was a man she should follow.

"Well, I have been thinking about retiring. My husband wants to buy an RV and travel a bit around the country."

"Atta girl, Nina. Get my clothes."

She couldn't believe she was doing this. After thirty-five years as a nurse, never defying one single order, here she was about to do everything wrong. On her day off, to boost.

First, she put a band-aid on the open wound where his IV hand been in his hand, even though Bill 'tsk'd at her. Then she brought his clothes to the bed, and it was an earnest struggle getting him dressed. Socks were easy. Sliding his trousers up not so bad, until he had to lift his hips, and then he took a deep breath in, braced himself, got his butt off the bed for a few necessary seconds and the slacks were buttoned and zippered. When he said he was ready, she hugged her arms around him and yanked back, elevating him up to a sitting position, ignoring his soft cry of pain, which leaked out even though she knew he desperately wanted to hide it. She untied and removed his gown, dressing him in his black t-shirt and his red and white short-sleeve shirt. Last, she tied his shoes in place. She left his hospital bracelet on, hoping he'd be back soon once again getting proper care.

"I'll need a wheelchair and crutches," he said. "Go get them." He added the obvious, a brief grin flashing on his sweaty face. "I'll wait here."

Nina turned to go. Bill grunted and then called out, "Could you also get me a smaller dose of morphine than the one I've been getting? I've got to stay alert, but some pain-killer help would be good."

"I didn't think Superman needed pain meds," she said, seeing him sit up five days before he was supposed to, before anyone imagined he could.

"I'm not Superman. I'm trying to save him," Bill said, cryptically. "Now, can you get me some lower dosed morphine tabs?"

Oh, great. Dress the patient, against orders. Steal hospital equipment, against orders. Sneak him out, against orders. Give him unprescribed medicines, against orders.

"Tell me I won't go to jail," she said.

"You won't. Promise. And if you do, I'll come visit every month. Smuggle in some syringes to make you feel at home."

Nina imagined that this man, if he wanted to, could get anyone to do whatever he wished. There was something about him that almost forced one to follow his directions.

Nodding, she left the room. She spoke to Amy and told her everything was all right and to care for her other patients. It didn't take long for Nina to get the wheelchair, crutches sized "tall", and two lower doses morphine tabs. After all, Nina had a key to the locked narcotic pain medicine cabinet. That came with being a completely trustworthy nurse for three decades. Bill swallowed one of the pills down immediately upon her return. He put the other into his pocket.

"You need to be on antibiotics. That head wound was very deep," she said.

"Later. You have a car, right?" he asked.

"Maybe," Nina answered, locking the wheelchair so it couldn't move. She really didn't want to hear what her patient was going to say next.

"I need you to drive me to my friends' home, and then lend me your car. You can take a cab home if your husband can't pick you up."

"This is just getting better and better," Nina said.

"Hey, you'll be on my Christmas list, my Memorial Day list, my Flag Day list, my Veteran's Day list. My big four holiday lists. Now, help me into the chair."

It was his delicious wit and the way he chased people around in conversations. One simply couldn't keep up.

She got his right arm out of its sling, so he could use both arms for leverage. She stuck a cotton towel in his mouth, and then the two of them managed, somehow, god knows how, to move him from the bed into the wheelchair. The towel was clenched so tightly, a pit bull could not have grabbed it from between his teeth. Bill's hip screamed, begged, implored, beseeched and pleaded to not be moved an atom of distance, but somehow, after five or so minutes, he was in the chair, rocking back and forth in agony, sweat coating his skin.

Thank goodness her 5'6" frame was still sturdy for her age.

"Paper," he gasped, reaching for a section of the newspaper he had read earlier in the day. Nina gave it to him, and he opened it up, hiding his face behind it.

There was, in reality, nothing unusual about a casually dressed woman wheeling an unknown patient out of the hospital. No one should notice. When they discovered Bill was not in his bed, all hell would break loose, true, but until then, it was just another patient getting discharged.

Nina glanced outside Bill's room and when the coast was clear, they made their move. Holding the crutches in one hand was unwieldy, but it was the best she could do, having to push the wheelchair with her other hand. Bill hid his face behind the paper. They entered the elevator with no one else in it, and descended to the ground floor. A few more steps, Nina waving to the reception counter woman, and they were out the door. She wheeled him to her large sedan in the parking lot, locked the wheels, and opened the back door. With Bill using his left leg, and Nina's pulling him up with sheer strength, they tumbled together into the back seat, and trying to keep Bill's hip as straight as possible, pushed and yanked him onto the seat. She threw the folded up wheelchair and crutches in the trunk and sank into the driver's seat.

"Where to?" she asked.

No answer came from the back seat for a number of seconds so she turned around to check on Bill. He was in too much pain to speak, and could only lift a finger, silently asking her to wait a little more. He was very pale. She couldn't imagine his fortitude and hoped the morphine kicked in quickly. Finally, after a good, solid minute, Bill was able to give the directions to Ralph's house in short, staccato sounds, with long pauses in-between.

"Got it," Nina said. "Nina's Chauffeur Service now For Hire."

She checked the rear-view mirror, seeing a man covered in bandages and plaster sweating profusely and looking half dead. Bill was leaning against a door, eyes closed, breathing heavily, his long legs lying lengthwise on the back seat reaching the opposite door all the way across the car. His right arm hung off the seat, to keep it from lying on his hip; his left hand tightly held his right shoulder. He hadn't seemed to hear her words.

She wondered if she had any friend who would bear such pain for her, and truly didn't know. She hoped her husband would!

Bill's friends, she decided, were very lucky people. As was society in general, having FBI agents like him out there looking after all of them.


	19. Chapter 19

Chapter Nineteen

It took thirty-five minutes to arrive at his friends' home, with Bill giving her street by street directions for the last few minutes as she wandered around a residential district foreign to her. She pulled up at the curb and heard keys jangling. Turning, Bill separated one key out on the key chain.

"This one works the front door, if it's locked. It may not be. Kidnappers don't usually lock the doors when they leave."

He seemed to be an expert on kidnappers. "Is your life always like this?"

"Pretty much."

"I hope you get a decent salary."

"Don't make me laugh. It hurts too much."

"Is the morphine kicking in?"

"A little. It's helping. Now find that red suit, boots, cape, belt, and bring it all back here to me in a gym or shopping bag. Look in the bedroom first; to the right through the living room."

"That's what's going to get your friends back? A Halloween costume? In March?"

"Trust me here. I'm not doing this for my health. Leave the front door unlocked."

Shaking her head, she took the keys and walked up to the house. She disappeared behind the wall which hid the front door from view and reappeared just a couple of minutes later, the suit in a little gym bag of Pam's.

"Here it is," she said, handing him the bag and his keys.

"Good. Thanks. Now, get me into the driver's seat. Write your phone number and address on a piece of paper and leave it in the glove compartment. Then skedaddle back into the house and get yourself home. I'll get you your car by tomorrow."

"You promise you'll still be alive by then?"

"Can't you see? I'm pretty tough to kill. "

He had been blown out a window only two days previously, and looked like it, but there he was, tough as old leather, still living. She believed him.

"What should I tell my husband?"

"Make something up. That's what I do with my boss all the time. Works like a charm."

She smirked at that.

Luckily, the lower dose morphine cut the pain enough that transferring Bill to the front seat was only agonizing, instead of excruciating. He almost passed out once, calling out "No!" as his knees started to give out, but by sheer force of will, he contracted the muscles and called himself back. Nina heard the "No!" and, confused, she stopped helping him for a moment until he ordered, "Keep going!". Holding onto him, as she got him on the seat, Nina felt his shirt was drenched with perspiration.

"Get the crutches…into the front seat…Please," he choked out, hardly able to get a breath.

Thirty-five years of nursing had programmed her to do as she was told, without question. She continued to follow Bill's directives, too respectful of him to cause trouble. When the crutches were placed next to the suit bag, she leaned over the driver's window, which Bill had rolled down with his left hand.

"How will you drive?"

"Left-legged."

"Be careful, you brave, obstinate Fed. Heroes are hard to come by."

Maxwell gave her a look of gratitude. "Thanks…for helping. You're…alright, No Nonsense Nina…if you like fishing…lemme know…if you ever get divorced."

Nina smiled broadly. She had some well-established wrinkles, was a little chubby, and her head was topped with white hair. She had long ago passed through the age of flattery. Hearing such a compliment from a younger, handsome man like Agent Maxwell swelled her ego immensely. Whatever the personal consequences she suffered, she knew she had done the right thing.

Maxwell started the car with his right hand fingers sticking out from the cast. Nina watched the vehicle drive away until it turned out of her sight. She had broken just about every nursing law on the state books, some a criminal offense. However, Bill's commitment to saving his friends alone while so banged up, when other patients with hang nails wept hysterically and couldn't be dragged out of the hospital, was too profound to ignore.

Definitely this was not her typical Sunday. But it probably was for Agent Maxwell, and God bless him for it.


	20. Chapter 20

Chapter Twenty

Maxwell made it somehow to Culdero's residence. It was a house in Castaic Lake, square and boxy, three storeys, built right by the edge of the lake and isolated from its neighbors by a quarter mile of evergreen trees on either side.

He didn't remember most of the drive. It had happened on a kind of automatic pilot, a drugged maneuvering of the automobile in a robotic trance state. But, he had gotten here, and at 5:40 p.m. The first step through the gauntlet had been achieved.

Stopping the car in the u-shaped gravel driveway, he came back to awareness. He examined the home closely. Culdero had chosen well. A fairly large home, it was made of brick, with, suspiciously, the windows on the third level were either bricked up or closed tightly by heavy wooden shutters. Bomb-makers didn't like the public looking in their windows.

The lower dose of morphine had kept Maxwell from crying, but his hip pain radiated up into his abdomen and down to his right knee. Still, it was only pain. If he wound up having to get the whole joint replaced or was stuck in bed for a month after this scenario, he didn't care. It wasn't important. Ralph and the Counselor were important. Nabbing Culdero was important.

Two men came out of the house, guns in hand, and approached Bill in the car.

"Get out," one of them said, opening the driver side door, as the other turned away to ensure no one spied on them.

"Hold on," Bill said, "I'm not dancing a ballet here. I can hardly move." He lifted up his left arm. "Gimme a hand."

Frowning, the gunman put his gun in his holster and reached in for Maxwell, grabbing him under the armpits and roughly pulling him out, Maxwell's right leg, which he tried to keep as straight as possible, was the last body part out of the car. The man leaned Bill up against the car, and Bill rested his weight on his left leg.

"Get the crutches," he grunted, holding onto the bag.

"Don't boss me around," the man said.

Bill pinched his lips in annoyance. His pain gave him no allowance for prancing tough guys. "Shut up and do it."

The man waved his gun in Bill's face and Bill just shook his head towards the car. Brain dead goon, he thought. Putting his gun back again in its holster, the man brought the crutches out and Bill got them set under this arms, the bag hanging from his left hand.

"Inside," the man said, waving his gun toward the house.

"Sooner said than done," Bill warned.

He moved off at a snail's pace. He delicately placed the crutches, so that the pressure against his right shoulder wouldn't be too intense. As it was, his shoulder pain shot up into his neck and found its way down to his right fingers. Why pain couldn't just stay in one single spot he didn't know; nerves were unhelpful when injured. After the crutches were softly landed, he moved his legs forward, resting solely on his left leg, and ignoring the sharp throbbing each swing of his right leg produced. Well, not ignoring. Putting up with. Tolerating.

He progressed at the speed of one mile a day.

"Hurry up," one of the man ordered.

"This is hurrying. The recommended rate of movement for my hip is lying still."

It took five minutes to toddle thirty feet, but he made it inside the house, whose entryway he was relieved to find was right on ground level; no steps. His joy was quickly squashed.

"Upstairs," the men directed.

Maxwell looked up. There was a flight of fifteen stairs to the second floor and it seemed there was an equal number of stairs going to the third. If he could do it, which seemed unlikely, it would take hours.

"Where's the escalator?" he asked, turning his head left and right, checking out the house.

The ground floor was decked out as a typical living space: living room, kitchen and dining room, and other rooms in the back Bill couldn't delineate. Perfect for entertaining nosy neighbors wishing to come and be social.

"No escalator. Move it."

"Elevator? Dumb waiter? Crane?"

A gun poke in his back settled the questions.

It was out of the question Resting on his left leg, Bill put his crutches on the first step; using his shoulders, particularly his left, and doing a little hop, his legs ascended and Bill got himself balanced out. His heart was pounding and his hands were already slippery on the rubber crutch handles. It was getting hard to think—pain signals were taking over his brain, like a tornado warning alert was screeching inside his head. He was afraid he would lose focus and blow his simple, yet promising plan. Yet, another poke in his back set his course upwards. He made the second step; the third. He had to rest on that step.

"What's taking so long?" Culdero's voice floated downstairs.

"The stairs, Mr. Culdero," one of the man answered. "He's on crutches."

"Well, carry him up," came the answer. "I'll send Etienne down to help."

A third criminal joined them and was handed the crutches while the other two men figured out how to get the 6'2 agent upstairs. Maxwell remembered being carried out by O'Neil's colleagues when his ribs were fractured, with his legs straight out and his back slightly bent. It was better than a fireman carry. He explained it to the men and they nodded in understanding.

It didn't take too long. Bill was lean even though tall, and the two men managed fairly easily to lug him upstairs. Each jolt of his bent hip felt like an anvil directly clobbering his hip bone and caused him to cry out a few times, but it was no more painful than climbing each stair individually on crutches. And it was over in a couple of minutes, not the hours his climb would have taken.

Bill was put down at the top of the stairs on the third floor and given his crutches back. The room was lit only by hanging electric lights. It was designed more like a loft, with no walls or divided areas, just free, open space full of boxes, work tables, wires, and metal. Just a few tiny holes tapped through the walls enabled someone to view the outside, probably for monitoring anyone approaching the house.

Tied up nicely in two chairs but not gagged were Ralph and the Counselor, staring at him like he was an otherworldly ghost floating around the hall of some dark, gothic castle. Did he really look that bad or had they doubted he would come? He hoped the former; the latter would be insulting.

Bill wiped his face of perspiration. He felt like throwing up or passing out but instead headed their way.

"Bill!" Ralph said.

"Ralph. Counselor." Bill slowly dragged himself directly in front of Ralph and shook his right index finger at him. "Now will you listen when the old geezer gives advice?"

"I will, Bill. I will."

"You look awful," Pam said.

"Counselor, Rosie the Riveter is supposed to be positive and support the troops."

"Enough!" Culdero said, coming up to the three of them. "I see you came alone. Jose will maintain his watch, ensuring no one else arrives." A man went to one of the holes and peeped out.

"Good for Jose."

"You are a fool, Maxwell, to walk in here alone, your death trap."

"Maybe. But, perhaps you and I can make a deal, worth my life and the life of my friends."

"No deal can salvage one's honor."

"Cut the Knights of Glory garbage, Culdero. There's no honor in blowing up civilians."

"There is honor in getting one's job done right."

"Not if you're a mass murderer. Honor doesn't apply to limbs ripped from women and children. Now, do you want to talk business or kill me? Choose one or the other because I've got no stomach for listening to the nutcase philosophy of bomb-makers."

Ralph sat there mesmerized by his friend's audacity. Deal from strength, certainly, but couldn't he push Culdero too far?

Culdero glared at Bill, stroking his thin mustache. Tense seconds passed.

Bill looked around, "While you're thinking there, Culdie, could I get some water?" Due to his perspiration and his anxiety, Bill's mouth was parched.

The impasse lasted another few seconds, as Ralph and Pam exchanging alarmed looks. Bill looked frankly indifferent.

Culdero finally spoke to one of his men, "Get him water." To Maxwell he said, "You mentioned your partner being bomb-proof. Is that what you think might save your life?"

Bill drank down the large glass of proffered water. "I've got something you want, and therefore you should give me something I want. I'll make you bomb-proof, and you'll release my friends and me."

Culdero laughed. "Show me."

Bill wrangled the tunic out of the bag and held it out for Culdero to view. "This is a secret government prototype suit made of special material, various metallic and plastic polymers forged together. No shrapnel can penetrate it and the force of an explosion cannot break through the material either, so limbs stay attached to bodies. It's an Army project, and me and Ralph were assigned to try it out in our investigation of you. Let him put it on, then toss a grenade at him or wire him with plastic explosives—he'll be fine."

"I don't believe it," Culdero said, pulling the whole suit out and studying it. "Even you Americans cannot have such technology."

"Oh? Then how did Ralph escape the condo bomb and stop the one in my hospital room?"

Culdero glanced at Ralph who knew enough to sit quietly and let Bill run the show. "What about his face? There is no protection for it."

"It came with a face mask, but Ralph lost it. He's bad with losing things."

But, he can protect his face by covering it with his arms or the cape."

Ralph remembered JJ Beck telling Bill he had a middle-level mind, and how Bill shot an embarrassed look at Ralph at that declaration. He hadn't needed to. Ralph knew then how off the mark JJ was. Bill wasn't a rocket scientist and didn't know much about classic literature or the opera, but his mind was rapid fire quick, he was cunning, and he could take disparate clues and mold together the answer to any confusing case. He could also get bikers to leap off roofs, maniacal mafioso to chase him in armored cars, and now, have an explosive expert convinced the US Army had invented a bomb-proof suit. He was amazing to watch at times. He noticed Pam was equally enthralled. Bill's proficient manipulation of Culdero made up for another sarcastic reference to him losing the instruction book.

Culdero gave Maxwell a look of incredulity.

"Look, don't trust my words," Bill said, shrugging his right shoulder by habit, only to grimace at the pain. "Have Ralph put the suit on, and then do your stuff. If it works, wouldn't you want to have it? This is the only one in existence. I bet you love to watch your explosions. You could stand in the marketplace as your bomb went off, enjoying your masterpiece at it happened."

Bill was disgusted even thinking about what he was saying, but his intuition had pegged Culdero correctly and his nemesis was wholly drawn into his scenario.

"If I give him the suit, he will be invincible," Culdero said.

"Nah," Bill lied. "Just bomb-proof. It doesn't give him Super Speed or Super Strength or make him invisible or anything. He can't stop you shooting me or his wife."

"What will keep me from taking the suit, and then killing you all anyway?"

"Your honor, I suppose."

"Yes, my honor…" Culdero said. "Which you disdain."

"Yeah, but I also disdain your caterpillar mustache, and you wear that. Honor is self-motivating, Culdero, not dependent on what anyone else thinks. So, do we have a deal or not?"

"Why shouldn't I have one of my own men try it on?"

"Sure, go ahead. But, they should first watch Ralph do it, to show them how to stand correctly to buffer the blast force."

It was a bravura performance. Twenty years in the FBI replete with dangerous confrontations and active experience, combined with a keen insight into the criminal mindset made Bill Maxwell's ruse successful. It was, frankly, remarkable. By controlling Culdero like a puppet on strings, Culdero agreed to allow Ralph to put on his jammies.

"Untie him. Give him the suit," Culdero said, pointing at Ralph.

Ralph and Pam kept their lips zipped tightly together as Ralph's bonds were undone, thus enabling them to contain their shrieks of joy.

A freed Ralph stood up almost too excited to coordinate his motions. It took him several attempts to get his shirt buttons undone and he stumbled taking off his shoes, causing him to fall to the floor.

"They gave someone so clumsy such important technology?" Culdero asked.

"Something I've wondered a few times myself," Bill agreed.

It was equally difficult for Ralph to put the suit on, and the tunic got stuck on the top of his head for a few seconds as his clothed arms flailed in the air.

Ralph, get a move on. I'm t-minus five minutes from meltdown, Bill thought. His pain was now winning the battle. Standing up on the crutches maintained a straight hip, but all the abuse it had suffered in the last two hours felt like a white hot brand was pressed against his side, searing his flesh. The crutches irritated his shoulder. His head wound throbbed, he hadn't eaten all day, and he was physically exhausted. He had pushed himself longer than imaginable and was sensing a grayness surrounding his consciousness, like vultures circling over a dying animal. It was time for Ralph to grab the baton and start running. Bill had gone as far as he could.

Finally Ralph was all suited up. Culdero had a grenade in hand and Ralph cooperated by standing in the middle of the large room, everyone else moving to the sides behind boxes, the sofa, roof stabilizing poles. Pam was carried in the chair to safety. It was torture for Bill to spend more energy, but he rambled behind one of the wide wooden poles.

"Go ahead, Culdero, toss it," Bill said. "Ralph, when it blows, you know what to do."

Ralph understood. "Got it, Bill."

Culdero threw the primed grenade expertly and it rolled exactly to Ralph's feet. Ralph covered his face with his cape, and the grenade went off. Tossed back but uninjured by the weapon, Ralph landed on the floor as everyone cowered protecting themselves. Turning invisible, Ralph set about running throughout the loft. He took the criminals' guns, crushed them, and then sent them flying into whatever immovable object he saw. Men crashed into poles and brick walls, the metal edge of work tables, knocked unconscious. When all five were disposed off, Ralph became visible again, untied his wife and they all turned to face the shocked face of Culdero, his hand in his pocket.

"Sorry, Culdero," Maxwell said. "I lied. I'm not very honorable, I guess. Somehow I'm not too worried it's going to keep me up at night."

At that moment the back wall of the house exploded out over the lake. Ralph covered Pam's body with his own, while Maxwell, leaning up against his pole, was protected from the blast. The view from the loft now contained a deep blue lake, trees, cirrus clouds, and a boat or two motoring along in the distance.

Culdero pulled a device out of his pocket and dashed downstairs.

"Ralph! Use your mind—"

A second explosion occurred, this one significantly more forceful and from deeper in the room.

All three of them went airborne.


	21. Chapter 21

Chapter Twenty-One

Ralph used his telekinesis power reflexively again, sending out waves of thought directing all the bomb fragments to avoid hitting Maxwell. The shrapnel responded, darting off in zig-zags away from his partner. Ralph was naturally protected and his body and cape sufficiently kept his wife from harm. As Bill flew backwards his body was untouched, although the force of the blast and the additional shock to his weakened system caused him to black out.

The three fell nearly thirty feet into the water, the depth of it absorbing the splashy blow of their fall. Bricks, boxes, broken work tables, and bits of the house struck the lake seconds later, raining down beside them in the water. Ralph, covering Pam, got himself straightened out and launched them both upwards, so they popped out of the lake and crashed inelegantly but unharmed on the grassy woods at the side of the house, coughing out water.

"Are you okay?" Ralph asked his wife.

"I'm fine. I'm fine. Go get Bill!" she urged.

Ralph turned dripping wet and looked at the lake. Bill wasn't to be seen on the surface. Anywhere.

"Bill!" he called out. "BILL!" He was about to dive back into the water, to scour the whole bottom if necessary, when a holograph appeared. It came out of the blue, like the very first time he wore the suit and was lashed to the gurney, and without holding onto something of Bill's he saw his newly assigned partner taken hostage. Holographs had appeared randomly like that a few times since, but Ralph hadn't grasped the technique to have it occur at will. He didn't know why it happened that moment, just when he needed it most, but he was sincerely grateful. He stood stock still, while Pam, not knowing what he was doing, was yelling at him to get going. Through the round shimmering vision, Ralph saw exactly where Bill was in the lake, immobilized under the remains of the destroyed house, unconscious, drowning.

He had protected Bill from being torn and maimed in the home, but not from all the rubble slamming into the lake.

He ran to the water's edge. Pieces of wood floated on top, caught in the ripples of the passing boats. Ralph dove in, swimming down in the now murky lake, the dirt bottom disturbed by the sudden entrance of sinking bricks and metal.

Ralph knew instinctively where to go and twenty-five feet below he pushed aside the blanket of debris over his friend and grabbed his arms. They came back to the surface, Ralph kicking his feet like the flutter of a hummingbird's wings, quickly cutting them both through the water to dry land.

Bill was limp and not breathing. Ralph carried him back up to Pam and laid him on his stomach. As Pam stood by, her hand covering her mouth, he lifted up Bill's torso and did a Heimlich maneuver. Great gulps of brown water erupted out of Bill's lungs. Ralph repeated that a few times, until no more water spewed out, and then turned Bill over onto his back. There were no new injuries visible on him, but he still wasn't breathing.

Ralph assumed a position to the side of Bill. "No, Bill, no!" he cried, imploring his wife, "Pam, help me here!" That brought Pam out of her horrified passivity to join in.

Ralph assumed the position to pump Bill's heart as Pam puffed twice on Bill's mouth, forcing air into his lungs. They began the five pumps-two breaths routine they had been taught in a fire station CPR course.

"Bill, come on, come on, breathe, breathe!" Ralph demanded, pressing down on his chest, hating his unresponsive body. They kept it up for a minute, tuning out the whole world, the sky, the birds, their own wetness, Culdero driving away behind them.

Don't you do it, Ralph silently commanded his friend. Don't you die on me. Don't you dare. Not now. Not like this. Not by saving my life and Pam's. Not because of my stupid error. You damn Fed, with your scenarios and your barging in at any time, and your gung-ho attitude, don't you die on me. Please, don't do it. Don't leave me here, alone, with this suit, without your guidance, without your friendship.

"Bill, breathe!" Pam chimed in frantically.

It was never clear exactly how things went down in the next few seconds, and it was all too uncomfortable for the three of them to discuss it later and wholly figure it out. So, it remained forever an ill-defined event.

Ralph continued pressing Bill's chest; Pam blew breaths into his mouth. But Bill was still not recovering. Suddenly, Ralph's internal tension exploded inside like a roaring volcano, and just after Pam finished her second breath, he compressed Bill's chest extra forcefully and, with his whole mind focused on the word, he screamed, "BREATHE!"

Bill suddenly inhaled a huge lungful of air. Turning his face he coughed out some more fluid, the water dribbling down his chin, and began uncoordinated respirations. Struggling initial gasps and sputters, however, soon leveled out to normal inhalations and exhalations. He was breathing. On his own. Ralph and Pam stopped their CPR, stared at Bill and then at each other.

"Ralph, you didn't…?" Pam couldn't finish the question.

"No, no, it was the CPR…that last thrust…"

Yes, surely Bill was breathing because of the success of the CPR. That was it. Not because he had been dead, and Ralph's telekinesis powers had ordered him back into his body…ordered him to start breathing again…

"Yeah, the CPR," Pam confirmed.

A stale memory of a brass chandelier haunted Ralph and he lifted up Bill's eyelid to confirm his pupil was still brown. It was. "Good," he said.

"Ugh…d'ya mind?" Bill asked, slurring his words.

"Sorry." Ralph released the eyelid, and both flickered half open on their own.

"Why're you two…all wet?"

"The bomb blew us into the lake."

"Chest hurts."

"We had to do CPR on you."

Bill coughed, his eyes closing again, though his breathing was regular. "Did you get Culdero?"

"No."

"Get him, Kid…don't like him…," and Bill drifted away.

People from around the lake were beginning to show up and police sirens were heard in the distance. "Pam, take care of Bill. I'm going after Culdero."

He flew into the remnant of the upper story of the house, picked up some strands of wire, and holographed in on Culdero driving away down the road. He flew out of the house, and within minutes had found Culdero's sedan. He landed on the hood, swung his legs around to the ground, and stopped the car's forward progress using the friction of his boots against the road. Then he strode to the driver's side, yanked off the door and flung it to the side of the road, pulled Culdero out, and tossed him against a tree. He got a great deal of pleasure hearing the coconut noise of his head striking the thick trunk, and immense satisfaction seeing him tumble unconscious to the earth. Ralph stood with his hands on his hips realizing he was safe, his wife was safe, Bill was safe and Culdero was soon to be arrested.

Once again, they had saved the day. As a team. A heckuva fine team.


	22. Chapter 22

Epilogue

Bill wound up right back on the same hospital floor with the same nurse. New bandages, new plaster, new ice packs, new IV line. New broken rib courtesy of Ralph's CPR technique. He put up no fight this time resting somewhat comfortably for nearly three weeks before being released, officially, on doctor's orders. It was that, or face his new friend Nina's tightly curled fist.

His hair grew back quicker, but it took a good three months for his joints and rib to stop hurting.

Catching Culdero was a major bust for the US FBI. Considering Interpol and various European countries had been after him for years, it made the FBI look highly efficient and competent. And since it was Carlisle's agent who nabbed him, Carlisle himself was lauded as a superlative supervisor. Bill made the cover of "Bust and Badge" magazine for the second time in three years, an unprecedented accolade.

With Culdero's arrest, and the death of the five criminals caught in his house explosion, the bank robberies stopped. Culdero admitted to murdering the businessmen and Gerard and offered to give up information on many crime figures in Europe for lesser jail time for himself. This was agreed to by prosecutors, thus various crime syndicates across Europe were brought down within the next year.

Bill's extensive report was written to include his own sleuthing and computer research, the aid of snitches, the kidnapping of Pam Davidson and his own departure from the hospital with the help of Nina Caldwell to rescue the Counselor. Nina was thus not prosecuted for the laws she broke, but instead received a commendation from the mayor of Los Angeles. Her husband had to keep waiting for his RV.

The fact that Culdero crashed his car and suffered a severe concussion attempting to escape made it seem as if providence had joined in with the FBI on the case. Also, it was very helpful for Bill—Culdero could not remember anything after Bill's arrival at the house, so there were no witnesses to Ralph's suited participation. Ralph surreptitiously found his clothes in the lake and so showed up miraculously unhurt to the crowd, police, and rescue people caring for Bill.

Still, Carlisle found all sorts of improbable explanations in Bill's report, along with the usual spelling and grammatical errors. There were holes large enough to push the moon through. He also noticed a few agents beginning to leave their upper shirt button undone and loosening their ties; the hated haute couture of Maxwell's fashion style. But, Carlisle was flying so high from the FBI Director in Washington D.C. calling him to laud his department and Maxwell, Carlisle put his fine toothed comb away, and personally shook Maxwell's hand saying he was proud of him. He meant it, too.

Bill meant it, too, when privately he shook Ralph's hand and thanked him for doing such a great job on the case, helping him out anonymously, and saving his life twice. Then he brushed aside Ralph's second apology for prematurely taking off the suit.

Bill had a fuzzy yet pleasurable memory of the gorgeous Counselor leaning over him several times and kissing him on the lips, which he filed away in the "Better Not To Think About" section of his mind. Ralph and Pam visited him daily in the hospital, often bringing him thick, juicy burgers from his favorite joint. Once, when he slept, they good-humoredly used a magic marker to scribble on his cast "Happiness is a Warm Pistola", getting the patently ridiculous phrase exactly the way Bill liked.

The End


End file.
